Honor Bright
by spotted.paw
Summary: A collaboration of three authors, this story follows the life of Jack Sparrow's brother Hal, and it gladly features Marvel's Pearl, Jack's daughter. Or so it seems. We have angst, love, blood, drama ... stuff like that.
1. Prologue

**Note: **_So, this is actually a collaboration of three writers, by the names of Marvel, Pendragginink and my humble self, spotted.paw. We write three characters in the same storyline._

_Marvel's character is Pearl Sparrow, notorious pirate and first mate to the infamous Jack Sparrow. I'll post chapters written by her occasionally. More about Pearl can be read in three amazing stories that Marvel has online here under her nickname: Pearl, Braving the Flames & The Oldest Story in the Book. I can only warmly recommend them to you._

_Pendragginink's character is Maggie Norrington, wife of Commodore Norrington – and she frequently writes several other characters, too, hehe. She's rather good at doing the unexpected, so I don't know in advance who or what she will write. So far, she has been my fellow co-author and has shaped the storyline, and my character, just as well as I have, maybe even more._

_My own character finally is Hal Sparrow, brother of Jack, pirate, privateer, samurai, tattooer, bodyguard, midwife or whatever else might be needed. He acts as the narrator of the story in most places._

_The storyline follows a frame setting in Port Royal, with Hal awaiting his execution for murder – a murder that was quite different from all he committed before. There, he reflects on his life. _

**Prologue**

Rain is pouring from grey clouds. Strands of rain, coming down like thin ropes of water from a sky of Damascus steel. The air is fresh. I stand next to the small window, my forehead resting against the rusty bars. My right hand reaching out into the cool breeze. I would like to feel the rain on the back of my hand. But it is too far, and so all I feel is a spray of rain that comes from drops hitting the branches of a nearby tree.

"It seems even God is weeping for Captain Hal Sparrow."

I don't turn around. No need to. I can see him standing there, Commodore Edward James Norrington, the splitting image of the pride of His Majesty's Royal Navy. I smile on that. No, God's not crying for me. No need for him.

"You call me a Captain. You are kind."

"I'm not kind. I'm following the protocol."

My smile broadens.

He clears his throat. "I trust your ... meal was suitable to your specifications."

He's not leaving, apparently. So I turn around and actually see him standing there, the Commodore, chin in the air, hands behind his back. And ever so uncomfortable. Poor man. I try not to smile at his discomfort, but I fail. And smile again on that.

"Well," I continue to smile because I want him to realize I am joking, "... the asparagus tips were a trifle stringy, and the hollandaise a bit bland, but on the whole, I would say you could call me reasonably satisfied."

Now what was that, Commodore? Are you biting your lips? Why so? Trying not to smile or trying to hide your anger at this unappreciative pirate?

"Is there any last request? One that I might be willing to grant, of course." Norrington has found his countenance again.

I nod, smirking. "Of course." I wonder, was he expecting me to ask for a pardon as my last wish? Or five Tortuga whores? Or, worse even, a respectable lady? No, none of that, Commodore. My last wish is an easy one, easy for you to grant at least. Hard for me to say, though.

"I would be very much in your debt, Commodore, if you refused to let Jack in here, ever." I feel the grin slowly fading from my face. "If you could be so kind. ...please?"

And please stop staring at me like that. If you can't handle me breaking into tears.

He nods, and turns to leave.

I watch him retreating, in good order as long as I can see him. Listening to the sound of his feet on the steps in the companion way. Suddenly he breaks into a run. I chuckle on that, but only a little. Wouldn't surprise me if he dashed all the way to his office, to hide behind the protocol. I, for my part, I retreat to the pile of fresh straw in the corner. He's a good man, the Commodore, good host. Fresh straw everyday, and water laced with rum for freshness. Maybe he thinks he owes that to me since I didn't kill him that day on the tea plantation. Oh my, tea plantation ... now how long is that past? And how did we ever get there?

My hand wanders to touch my eyebrow. The empty left socket is hidden beneath a patch of black leather. Jack has made that one for me, out of leather from his hat.

If Captain Corr hadn't caught us, if I hadn't lost my eye, if we weren't held prisoner on that Navy ship, if we hadn't been sold as slaves, ... if. If I hadn't been born ... . I smile. There's no end to this. Well ... but there will be an end soon, the end of a rope, forming a noose. Will this be the end?

No, no wondering about ends now, pirate. Will do you no good. Remember the good times. Good times ... when were the good times. Trying to find out about the good times, one of the first things coming to my mind is that one very bad time ... the time that lead us to Corr's brig, and from there, to some East Indian slave market, and on to the tea plantation


	2. Still Prettier than Me

Note: _This chapter refers to a flogging Hal lived through, after he and Jack were taken prisoner by an enemy pirate, who wanted to get to the Black Pearl. It is pre-movie, when Jack still was Captain of the Pearl, with Hal as his First Mate._   
_For the sake of those who don't enjoy that stuff so much, I left the chapter with the actual flogging out, it is rather a torture fic and pretty graphic. Those who are interested are most welcome to go and read it in my short fic A Little Sparrow here on _

This chapter starts out with a third person narration from the point of view of Private William Turner. Just as to avoid some utter confusion – he is actually William Turner, Senior; thus the young Bootstrap Bill.

Chapter 1 Still Prettier than Me 

Private William Turner entered the brig with his rifle ready. He had no idea how many pirates were left on the ship. But what he saw when he came to what appeared to be the hold made him wary. There was a man, small of build, dark complexion, long hair, shabby clothes, red bandana. Kneeling on the wet floor. A pirate, most likely. His mind instructed William to shoot. But something in the eyes of the man made him lower his weapon instantly. When the pirate moved from the dark, Turner saw that in his arms, he carried another person. The Private couldn't even tell if it was a man or a woman first, for the body and the face was covered in a layer of wet, glittering red. It was a small person he held, bare footed, wearing no shirt. William realized it was a boy, barely older than 20. He wasn't even sure if that gaunt, bloody thing was still alive. Then, the boy moved, and a hoarse sound escaped his lips. William stared at him in some sort of dazed fascination. What for Goodness Sake had happened to him? William had never seen someone so beat up, and still breathing. There were several plaits of long black hair dangling from his head, and from some of them, blood oozed to the floor in glutinous drops of dark red.

The pirate approached Private Turner.

"I don't mean to fight, I don't mean to surrender, either. He needs help. I do."

The man stared William down, and he wasn't sure why, but something about the tone of the pirate's voice made him put his weapon aside. He gave the couple a questioning look while he got out of his coat and hung it loosely onto the bleeding shoulders of the younger man.

"A flogging?" William had not seen whipping wounds close enough before, but he couldn't imagine what else would result in cuts like that. The pirate glanced at the Marine, and then gave him a short nod. Then, he got down and set the boy onto his knees on the floor, to wrap the garment around his bleeding chest. William reached out and helped the man to hold the hurt one. When he withdrew his hands, he realized that his palms were red. He had the intention of wiping them on his breeches, but somehow, he could not. It wasn't just dirt. This was blood, blood of a person that he could look into the face just now. God, that man had cuts even there. And what was wrong with that eye of his? Was it cut? Flogged, with what? Animal claws? Thoughts racing through his mind, he remained kneeling on the floor with his bloody palms raised. The pirate took the boy up again and while doing so, found William's gaze. Held it, until William flinched. Then he simply walked past him and towards the main deck. The Private now hesitantly cleaned his hands on his clothes and picked up his rifle. Followed them, unsure about what to think. He felt like the pirate had hit him on the head, without even touching him.

-

Am I dead? There's a lot of pain all over me, so, unless I am already in Hell, I'm afraid I'm still alive. I'm cold, and shivering. I can't open my eyes. I feel I'm lying on my stomach, half on someone's body. It must be Jack. My head rests on his shoulder, my left arm on his chest. And his arm is on my back. I try to raise my left hand to my head. It hurts to move. There is something, some cloth, wrapped around my face. I want to touch it to make sure. But then Jack's hands put mine down, carefully, back onto his chest.

"Easy, lad."

I hear my brother's voice.

"I'm cold." I say.

I feel my body quiver. Jack puts his hands onto my shoulders and starts to rub my arms, but when he comes to the wounds just above my elbows, he quickly stops it. Instead he takes me in his arms and carefully pulls me closer to himself. His shirt sticks to the cuts on my chest.

We're still on some ship, but it smells differently from Corr's.

"There is a cloth covering your left eye. I'm afraid it doesn't look too good. Your right eye is bruised, but it is not cut. It will be alright. Try not to open it, let it be. I have tended your wounds. They are not too bad."

I know by the tone of his voice that he's lying. But I smile.

"Have you told Corr?" I ask, even tough I know his answer.

"About the Pearl? No. Nothing."

"How did we get out?"

Jack laughs. With my eyes closed, I listen to the sound of his voice.

"Well, they'll always remember that day as the day they almost broke Captain Jack Sparrow. They were attacked by the Navy, the second I almost decided to tell them how to find the Pearl. Corr's ship was sunk a couple of days ago. Fortunately they'd bombed it before, and so I could get out of my chains when the wood broke. In all the chaos, we just slipped out. And amidst all that wreckage we escaped. We're back on the Pearl now. Everything will be fine."

I smile.

"Jack."

"Aye?"

"This is not the Pearl. I can tell it by the smell. It's too late to make my passing easy. Tell me where we really are."

Jack sighs.

"The Navy ship. They took us prisoner. I then figured this was the best place to take care of your wounds anyway. But don't worry, I'll get us out soon."

I sigh and nod. Whatever, Jack. I bury my face in his shirt and smell his sweat. Breathe in deep. One of my earliest memories. Then I try to rest in his arms. His hands stoke my cheek and my hair, which is hard with dried blood.

"Go to sleep."

-

"On three. One, t-" and he pulls hard.

There's a loud crack in one of the joints and my neck turns hot with the pain. My shoulder had been dislocated. Jack holds out his hand to me.

"Alright?"

"Aye, fantastic."

I grab it, but with the other arm. Some of the wounds have reopened. I feel blood collecting in my armpit.

"I'll just really have to think about going out to drink with you next time. It doesn't do me any good, or so it seems." I try to move my arm. "Are you alright yourself?"

Jack pulls a face. "I believe some of me ribs are broken. And I have lost two teeth."

When he says 'teeth' he spits. I laugh, despite myself and the pain in my shoulder.

"Apparently." I say. He grins, and I can see the holes where the teeth were.

-

It is very calm on the Navy ship, and nothing really happens. We been here for a couple of days. We haven't gotten any food so far, and I am getting really hungry. But I'm not sure if I could eat. My throat is sore. The whip has damaged something inside as it wrapped around my neck. My upper lip is torn. And I think there are some broken bones in my right wrist. Navy guys have brought us some water and bandages; and one of them even cared so much to spare a shirt. Good boys. Jack has wrapped my wrist so tight I feel like there's no blood left in my fingers. At least it has stopped the hurt. Gone numb instead.

In the cell on the other side, some of the Corr crew have moved in. Few have survived, fewer have been caught, and their Captain is not among them. Dead? I doubt it. He's not the Captain to go down with his ship.

Me right eye is actually getting better quickly, but to me it seems the pain in the left one increases hourly. I'm having the most terrible headaches I can imagine. The roots of my hair ache. My teeth do. My ears do. Even my eyebrows. Can eyelashes hurt? If so, mine do. The socket's not going numb. It's burning. But at least the pain is so intense that I hardly feel the aching of my skin. My cherished tattoos have suffered, but I think some of them could look almost good again with a little care. It is actually an interesting way of inspecting your mashed skin only to think: 'Will I be able to tattoo over the scars?'

-

"How's you feelin?" Jack asks.

"Great. Just great."

Jack loosens the cloth that covers my eye wound and looks at my left eye. Well, looks at what is left from my left eye. He grits his teeth and pulls a face.

"This is lookin rather badly."

"Thanks Jack, you really make me feel better." Jack quickly puts his hand under my chin and gives me his sweetest smile.

"Don't worry, lad. You're still prettier than me."

Even I have to laugh then. There are plenty of lasses who would strongly disagree with him now.

Jack looks over his shoulder and finds the other inmates disinterested in us. He then whispers: "Listen, Hal, I got an idea how we get out. You know, me hear of pirates who go free after telling the Navy about other pirate guys. See, we could tell them all we know about Corr and his crew."

I frown. "But we know nothing about them."

"Who cares? We make things up. The Navy guys don't know and no-one will believe Corr."

"What if he tells them about us first? If there's such an easy way out."

That makes Jack think. "Well … but we have the compassion bonus. You're hurt. We're not the bad pirates here. They found us prisoner, so why should we lie? Maybe we can get those wounds of yours a little more bleeding and every court would pity this handsome young gentleman."

"Yeah, great. We'll be free then but me bled to death. You leave me skin alone, wounds have only just closed. Besides, bleeding or not, me ain't no gentleman and everyone would notice."

"Aye, we work on the details later. But the concept is good."

"Well, after all it's the one and only chance we have, and that matter-of-factly makes it the best one."

-

Dark ocean, I'm in the water. Salt burns in my eyes. The Black Pearl under full sails. Leaving me behind.

"Wait!" Don't leave me alone!

But I am alone.

I wake with a start.

"Pipe down over there! Some people want to get rest 'ere." One of the Corr crew sleepily muttering from the other side. My back hurts. But I lie down again onto it. The shirt is wet. Sweat or blood, I can't say, for it is dark outside, no light oozing in through the cracks in the wall. Jack rolls over to me.

"Rest on me belly once again, will ye? Won't be as hard and cold."

"I'm fine."

"Shut up and come 'ere."

I place my head on his shoulder again. Look at him. He gives me a smile, but it doesn't reach his eyes. Jack looks incredibly tired. How will this go on? Things would be so much easier for him if I died. Jack stares into my eyes and frowns.

"Whate'er you were just thinking, stop it." He carefully wipes sweat from my forehead.

"Go to sleep."

I will sleep.

-

Am I sleeping?

"The boy is going to die. Is he still breathing, anyway?"

I don't recognize the voice. British accent. Someone touches my face.

"Faintly, but he is." Another Brit.

"Should we send the doctor down?"

"He has enough to do with our own men that were wounded in battle. When he's done with them, this man will be dead already. Leave him like this. Useless to bother the doc with him."

"Gentlemen," now this is Jack, "I most certainly understand yer dilemma, but unlike you I am unwilling to give up jus' yet. If you be so kind as to leave me fresh bandages and some salt, I shall not interfere with you again, and neither will he."

Silence.

"For God's sake, leave them what he asks for then. We will not miss it and for that boy, it will probably make no difference. They will both hang, any way."

I have not opened my eyes. I will not. I hear their steps, walking away. Sleep.

-

Am I awake? It burns. I can't even localize where. It hurts and I want it to stop. Through half-closed eyes I see Jack, kneeling next to me, occupied with the wounds on my arm. Feels like he has his whole hand inside me flesh. One thing before I doze off, "Can you please be careful with the tattoos?" Back to sleep again.

-

I'm on horseback. It's a bright summer day. Wide open fields. Wind in my hair. The horse gallops through the grass. I duck into its mane. The sun is hot on my back. Pace slows down. I sit back in the saddle, easing up. We approach a small forest. I feel a streak of sweat running down my chest. It's incredibly hot. I can't wait for the shade of the trees. But the heat increases, even though we've entered the shadowy lane. I bring the horse to a halt. It's getting so hot I can't breathe. I cough.

Then I wake up, to realize the heat comes from my back, and from the salt on it. I open my mouth and gasp for air. It hurts. Very badly.

"Stop it!", I scream, "Stop it! Stop!"

Jack grabs hold of my shoulders from behind. "Just some more seconds, hold on."

I bury my fingernails in the dirt of the planks. Clench my teeth. Press my forehead to the ground so fiercely I can hear a ringing in my ears. I try hard but I can't hold back the screams. This is worse than the flogging. I feel I'm sweating from every pore. Breathing heavily. Make it stop, please, please make it stop.

And it stops, eventually.


	3. Up There with Them

_**Note:** This is back in the cell in Port Royal, where we started out._

**Interlude**

"Cap'n?"

A familiar voice through the dim light, and the oppressive silence. I stir from my crouched position. Sit up, and move over to the wall. I know the speaker. I place my palms on the stones and I can feel he is doing the same on the other side of the wall.

"D'Agosta?"

"Good to hear your voice, Cap'n.", he replies. Accompanied by relieved laughter on the other side.

"Are Kagen and Laurent with you?", I ask. Two other voices reply positively. There are my three missing crewmen, in the cell next to mine.

"Aye, Sir."

"Don't call me Sir in times like this." Why, is there resignation in my voice? Now haven't I been in more desperate situations before? This time it's different. She's the reason. I feel very old, and very tired. I don't want to get away this time.

... will you let me melt into the sea.

"So there is nobody coming to get us ... you?" Now Kagen wants to get away apparently.

"No, there isn't. I left them behind, both the Red Dragon and the Black Lotus. The crews remained untouched. I surrendered."

"You – surrendered?" Disbelief. Triple disbelief.

"I did. Because I am responsible for the raid, and I saw no need for all of the crew to die with me. They were after me, especially, for a woman who was killed in the attack ... the wife of the Commodore."

"You killed her?"

"... I killed her." God forgive me, I killed her. Good Lord, I really killed her.

Silence again, and even more oppressive. Or so it seems to me.

Then, Laurent's voice, insecurely. "Did the town folks spit on you, too?"

I chuckle, despite the situation.

"Well, what did you expect? We burned their houses, stole their belongings and left them with no shelter and goods." I mean, this is what we do. But hell, if I was them, I would have spit on us.

"They will hang us, then." D'Agosta is braving the facts.

"This is what it is coming down to. I have talked to the Commodore, but he cannot let you go. I'm sorry." I nod, to myself, because he can't see me, obviously.

"Cap'n, please," Kagen really is desperate, "I don't want to die!"

God, man, I said I was sorry. Please, what can I do. I cannot help you anymore. What can I say to him.

"... we will be up there together, side by side, mates. We'll go back together. I'll never leave your side."

I don't know that, but I am lying to them.

"What do you mean, them first?" My voice rises from a whisper to a scream. I stare at the Commodore in utter confusion.

"You mean I'll hang - separately?" He nods, and I see he is not feeling too comfortable around me, yelling at him about my execution.

Now that's a Captain's privilege I could do without, getting my own place at the gallows. I turn away from him to face my three mates. Good God, I cannot let them down in this.

"But I promised them, I promised them. I told them we'd be going together."

I turn back to the Commodore and this time, I want to beg. I reach up and grab his coat. Must look very pathetic with my chained hands, clinging to his uniform.

"Edward, please. I need to be up there. With them. For goodness sake, you can't refuse to hang me with my men!"

I hadn't realized I even knew his first name. Two of the soldiers tear me away from him. They catch me off balance. I stumble, and they let me fall. From the ground, on my left side, I look up at Norrington. One hand in the dust, the other on a soldier's boot. The man grabs my elbow and pulls me up. I tear my arm from him, and rise to my knees alone. But I never let go of Norrington's gaze.

"Please. I cannot let them down in these minutes of utter despair."

And I'm goddamned begging you on my knees.

The Commodore shudders, then, with his eyes closed, he turns his back on me.

Don't! I want to scream it. Don't do this to me. I will never be able to forget this. Don't let this happen to me. I'll go to Hell for this alone.

But I say nothing. Instead, I keep staring at his back. A soldier grabs my shirt.

"Get up!", he orders, and pulls me to my feet.

I promised them to be up there with them. I am not. Instead I stand amidst a bunch of soldiers, who aren't exactly there to prevent me from escaping, but the mob from tearing me into pieces. My scalp does still hurt from them pulling at my hair. They pulled out one of the plaits I think, or, almost. There's blood running down my ear, down my jawline.

I stare up at my men.

Laurent, Kagen, D'Agosta.

Kagen was Danish, but hell, he could play the Irish tunes so well on his violin. Laurent, he could smell storms. Four our five times, we would have been dead and on the bottom of the ocean wasn't it for him. And D'Agosta, many stories to tell about him. One of them, he was good with the needles. Could sew. Sails, and wounds. And, he tattooed me. The lotus, on my wrist, he did it. It's hidden under the cuffs now.

They are staring at me. I stare back at them. Please forgive me. Please forgive me.

I know they don't blame me, or hold me for anything that is happening now. I know they do forgive me. But ... I don't.

I cry. I feel tears searching their way down my cheeks, during the whole procedure. Them being read their offenses, the nooses placed around their necks.

Please, please forgive me.

They keep staring at me. And I keep staring back.

They fall, and I keep staring at the empty space. The whole world has faded from my vision. But I keep seeing them there. I feel the tears seeping into my collar. I realize I'm holding my breath.

I turn my face towards the sky, and close my eye tight. And just then, the rain begins to fall again. I open my mouth slightly, and single drops hit my lips and tongue. My tears melt into the rain.

Take them home, will you.

Then, I'm back in the cell. Waiting. Alone.

Alone with my fear, and the pain, and alone with memories. What was I thinking abot? The Navy brig? Yeah, there was more to that Navy thing.


	4. Balancing Pain

Chapter 2

**Balancing Pain**

Fresh air. Fresh air and sunlight. It hurts. Especially in the eye. Too much brightness for only one, maybe. We stand on the deck of the ship. Surrounded by all those redshirts. I smile. The white shirt they gave me, God bless them, it is almost as red as their jackets. Even though the older stains have turned brown. Dyed. Died. Dead. Dead almost. Dying.

What is it about those wigs? I simply can't understand it. Strange men.

"You will both be members of the Royal Navy from this day forth. But you shall be marked pirates for everyone to see. For when you shall not subdue to the maritime regulations or interfere with the East India Trading Company again, you shall be hanged without the chance of pardon. Step forward and get down on your knees."

Aye, great. As if I didn't have enough bruises by now. This has pretty much been the bloodiest week of my life. And there have been bloody weeks, let me tell you. Jack has actually talked the Navy men into not hanging us. I have no idea what he told them. Maybe they only decided not to hang us so he will stop talking. But then, he would eventually have stopped talking once they hanged us ... . Anyway. In the end it comes down to this, we're able-bodied sailors. Well, I was. But will be again in some time. And the Navy needs crews. We're not the bad pirates here. Pirates still. Not bad enough to hang, but not good enough to get away. Well ... probably we wouldn't even get away were we not pirates. Anyway, we will not hang. And that's good news, after all.

I am to be branded first, Jack by my side to ensure I will make the short walk. My joints have suffered more than we expected. And my skin hurts like mad when I move. Getting on my knees sounds easier as it is. Jack helps me, before he steps back again. It hurts. A lot. They also took the bandages from my wrist to place cuffs on them, and the metal around the broken bones does not feel very comfortable.

Two soldiers come closer. One, a young man barely older than meself, with long blonde hair, gets down to me and tries to remove the bandana from my head. Which is quite a task, I haven't taken it off in a while. The other soldier has the branding tool in his hand, a blazing "P" on top.

"Christ." I hiss.

The blonde looks at me. I feel his gaze but try to avoid it. He has finally managed to loosen my bandana. He still looks at me. And now I return his gaze. For a brief moment we read each other's thoughts. He, there, Navy, about to brand a P into the skin of my forehead. Me, here, pirate, about to experience pain. What do you feel now, blonde guy? And then it hits me like a blow. His eyes, right in front of me, probing into me. Look at me. And I realize what he feels. He does feel compassion for me. Me, pirate. He, Navy. He's not anxious. He pities me. He pities the pirate. It is almost a shock for this desperately grim sailor that is me. He hands me the bandana and steps behind me, to take hold of my shoulders, to prevent me from moving. I clench my teeth, because his fingers pressing onto the cut skin and inflamed wounds send shivers down my back. I feel my blood pulsating in my veins. He puts a piece of leather in my mouth. And his grip on my shoulders tightens, as if to say: 'I'll help you through this. I'll hold fast so that not all of the pain travels down to your heart.' I close my eyes for a short second, bite down on the leather and give him a slight, hardly visible nod. I'm not sure if he realizes it is meant for him. Thank you, I acknowledge this. This is benevolent of you, and if I could, I'd take a bow before you.

The other soldier comes closer. And the man behind me kneels down, wraps one arm tightly around my head, the other one around my shoulders to steady himself. His face is next to mine, and I can feel his breath on my cheek. He breathes hard. I'm not breathing at all. Then the P touches the skin of my forehead. I smell burnt flesh, but I have smelt that before. It takes some time until I feel the pain. It feels as if he tries to fry my brain, or so I think. The heat shooting through my skull like liquid. My jaw is trembling, and my fingers twist the bandana in my hands. I don't realize how much I'm twisting, until I realize how deep the fingers of the soldier dig into my scalp. I can see the pain as a white light inside my head.

Am I screaming?

Can you – please – stop it!

Did I scream that?

The soldier puts the metal away, and it feels as if my flesh sticks to it. How deep is that hole? Has he touched the bone? My whole forehead seems to be on fire. The other one slowly lets go of my head, but even though he gives my neck time to adjust, it feels as if my head falls backwards. Now the plan was to straighten up, but my legs refuse to accept the task. I simply fall forward, onto my hands and the broken wrist, but the pain in my head does balance the one in the arm. For a second I think I will faint, because the planks before my eyes turn black.

But then I feel the blonde soldier reaching for me. He grabs hold of my arms and helps me to get up. I can't stand, and I lean so heavily onto him that I'm afraid I'll make us both fall. The planks beneath my feet feel as if we were encountering heavy seas, when actually there are barely any waves. But he stands his ground, holding me. I cling to his jacket for some seconds and try to find my balance. He looks at me, concerned. I look back at him, contorted. Why are you doing this? Why do you help me?

I somehow manage to assume a standing position with him holding me straight. He stays by me side while they prepare to mark Jack.

"Thank you." I say to the man. Pause. "I feel humiliated to ask more of you. But could you please move your hand a little bit to the right? My flesh is torn just where your fingers are, and the pain is killing me."

While I am saying this, it comes to my mind that the cut might in fact kill me, literally. I have to face it; I am more than lucky if I survive this. A blood poisoning is caught so easily, and I've spent my past days in conditions that were far from clean. Actually, losing an eye is worse enough. I don't want to lose a limb. And I don't feel comfortable anymore about dying just now. Survived too long.

"I am truly sorry." The voice of the blonde soldier brings me back to reality. "I didn't realize I hurt you. Is it better like this?" He moves his hand.

"Aye, thank you."

When Jack's bandana is removed, murmuring arises. I look at him and burst into laughter, despite the pain in my head and the whole rather uncomfortable situation. And despite the soldiers looking at me, barely able to stand, scarred and bruised, but giggling.

It is scary, to hear my laughter rise above the silence, and nothing but my laughter for what is easily half a minute.

Jack, he has a huge tattoo on his forehead, and not a very well done one, if I might add. And it says, "LIVE". I take some seconds to figure out what it means. Then I remember he told me once, he wanted to have "evil" tattooed on his forehead. I remember I told him I thought that was the most needless tattoo ever. But I didn't count on him to listen to me. Since he was always wearing the bandana tightly wrapped around his head, I never wondered if or if not he had got the tattoo. But apparently he got it, and the tattoo artist he consulted was illiterate. Or, blind.

I'm chuckling, while the Navy people discuss whether to brand over the tattoo or not. They finally conclude to brand onto his arm instead. Great. Next time, I'll have "DAB" tattooed onto my forehead, just in case. That might save me from a branding so deep it is scarring my skull.

When Jack's arm is done, they take us back to the hold. Until we are able to work, we shall remain here. The blonde one is still by my side. Jack on the other. I cannot walk by myself, and my head is swimming. The soldier helps me to lie down on the floor.

"Thank you for the coat." I say to him.

I have been sleeping on that for the past week. Jack has told me it is this guy's coat. Seems he didn't want it back, bloody as it was.

"Do you need something?" he asks us.

"Aye, we be in need of some clean sheets and water. And salt ... or vinegar, whatever you prefer. You wouldn't happen to have a doctor here, me dear? We really could use one."

The young seaman gulps, "We have one, but I'm not sure if he will be able to come down to see you. Therefore, no, I am afraid."

Jack leans onto his shoulder. "But maybe ... maybe some rum. Only for the means of benumbing, of course."

The blonde guy shrinks away, "I'll see what I can do." He leaves.

"Wait!" I try to get up but it is futile.

Yet I really don't want him to go away like this. He has shown me more kindness during this last hour than most people have ever thought of presenting to me in my life.

So I ask: "What would be yer name?" He turns around and gives me a slight smile.

"Turner. Private William Turner."

"William Turner." I return his smile, however weak, "I shall remember that."

I shall remember that until I die. No matter how soon.

"Hal?", that's Jack again.

I look at him. "What is it?"

Jack puts the bandana back on.

"Not a word about ... THIS!", and he vaguely gestures towards the huge tattoo on his forehead. Then, his tone becomes threatening. "Not a word. Else, I'll give you a word: Eunuch."

I snort, and can't help grinning. Upon Jack's killer glance, I bite down on my lips, straighten my face to form the most sincere expression of all mankind, and raise my right hand, as if to swear.

"Not a word, brother.", shaking my head no. But I think I might have crossed my heart on that.


	5. No Debts

**Interlude**

Norrington walks past the cell. I sit up quickly from the straw.

"Commodore?"

He stops hesitantly. Apparently he wanted to dash by rather hurriedly. Avoiding me, are you, Edward.

"Captain?"

"May I muster the debauchery of invoking ... yet another ... last request?"

"If it is going to be the definite last." He bestows me a smile. One that lightens my heart.

"I believe there is someone out there, waiting for me ... a bedraggled creature ... a canine. A dog ... my dog."

The smile continues to play around his lips. "Go on, Captain Sparrow."

I rise and slowly walk towards him. Raise my hands to clasp the iron bars, but put them down again when I see he is tempted to shrink back.

"Would it be ... can you ... can you let it in?"

"Well ... it is a dog and the guards might argue it will bite."

I chuckle on that. "That dog is nearly 17 years old. It has practically no teeth left in his mouth. But your guards might argue it will spit at them."

Norrington continues to smile while he looks at me. I hold his gaze. His eyes sparkle. I return the smile. I'm not sure my eye sparkles. I'm tired and I feel dried up allover. But I appreciate his presence, and his care. I want to make sure he knows. Maybe I should just say it. Thank you. For the care. Did I say it? He blinks, and finally looks away.

Sighs. "I'll see what I can do, Captain." He clicks his heels and turns. Walks down the corridor.

I step forward and put my hands through the bars.

"Thank you, Commodore." Thank you for the care. Now I said it. I'm sure.

He slows down a little, but doesn't turn around.

"Always a pleasure, Captain Sparrow."

Only like half an hour later, I hear the tapping of familiar paws. Norrington brings me the dog, and a cup of soup.

"Darling.", I say and kneel down. She comes to me, to press her forehead against my sternum, the way she always does. "I missed you so much."

_/I missed you, too. And it was wet outside./ _

She shakes herself, to spray Norrington and me with dirt.

_/You could have let me in sooner./_

"I'm sorry." I wrap my arms around her, and for some seconds, I just feel her warmth and her softness and her breathing and her heartbeat. Then, Norrington touches my shoulder and holds out his hand with the soup. I stirr, look up at him and reach out. For an instance, I hold his hands that hold the cup.

"I am forever in your debt, Commodore."

"No, Captain, you aren't. I would like to believe we are even. In truth, I can never make the debts up to you, I'm afraid."

I drink from the soup. Swallow, and never cease to look at him.

"No, Commodore. No debts."

I hesitate, before I go on. I risk making a complete fool of myself, kneeling before that man and talking about love. But I decide I'll just risk that.

And so I say: "I loved her, you loved her, and I shall like to believe she loved us. So there is no debt, there is ... there's love. That does at least feel better."

He frowns, ponders, and finally nods. Wants to say something, but is interrupted by the sight of the dog drinking out of the soup cup I offer her. I can tell he is seriously disgusted. I smile on that. But he manages to stay until I raise the cup and take another mouthful of soup for myself again. With a grunt, he leaves.

The dog chuckles. /_A weird man, that one./ _

"Yeah, but he is a good man."

_/I can tell he is. He's been treating you nicely./_ She turns her head to look at the place where he vanished. /_He better. I would have killed him otherwise./_

"I can see that."

She throws a glance at me. /_Don't make fun of me./_

"I wouldn't dare. I can see that indeed."

She smiles, and, with a sigh, places her head on my shoulder. /_Good boy./_

But again, Norrington comes back, to see the dog and me, in each others arms, on the straw.

"Do you need some medical care, for the ... the head?"

He gestures towards the bloody hairless spot where some person in the crowd tore out one of my plaits, when they walked me to my crewmen's execution.

"No, no thank you, it's okay."

I know I better stopped talking right now. But the words keep rolling forth from my mouth. Maybe I don't want him to leave.

"It doesn't really hurt, it's just ... well ... I just like my hair. But ... y'know ... I think it's the least I am expected to worry about, considering I am looking forward to what is going be my hanging, no? ... and asides, I still have the prettiest tattoos."

I smile, a wry smile, and stroke the dog, and feel tears collecting in my eyes.

I try to face him, but decide I have cried enough in front of this man. So I quickly bury my head in the dog's fur. Swallow the sob. Maybe he doesn't notice. Then, what does it change if he notices. Maybe I want him to notice. To pity me. Pity me! Go away! Stay! I don't need you! I do need you! Do! Don't! Don't. Don't ... leave me alone. I fall from euphoria to hysteria to depression. And back. What is the appropriate state of mind to be in before your hanging?

Are there guide books for that?


	6. Embroidery

**Chapter 3**

**Embroidery**

I don't know how he did it. But that William Turner really brought us a sheet and some water, and a most welcome needle. No rum, much to Jack's dismay. The sheet is not clean, and the water not fresh. But this is as good as it gets on a ship in the open ocean, for two unlucky pirates in the hold. Really unlucky we are, falling from one misery into another. Actually, we hadn't planned to leave the Pearl for more than two days. Now we've been gone for ... like ... two weeks I'd say. And I have no idea when we shall see her again.

"I'll get to cleaning your wounds now, alright?"

All that pain has become some much incorporated into my days that I can hardly imagine not to wake up to my aching body every day. I don't even manage to really bother anymore. More pain? No difference.

"Aye, just go ahead."

Jack leans over me and punches me in the face.

"Ouch! Are you mad?" I shriek. I wasn't prepared for THAT kind of pain.

"Can you please invest so much care as to knock me out instantly, and not all my teeth first!"

"Sorry. I didn't do it intentionally. Not so easy to beat me own brother, savvy?"

"You had no problem with that when we were kids." Jack smirks.

The next punch must have been a better one, because the cuts are clean and burning when I awake again. Jack is braiding his beard, very unsuccessfully. I clear my throat.

"Come here," I say, "Let me do that." It is hard to raise my arms, but I keep telling myself that I simply will have to move again, some time. So I face the pain and reach for his chin.

"Jack."

"What?"

"What will we do if they let us go? Will they let us go?"

"Aye, sure they will. They said we'd be members of this crew, and they did all that court and branding stuff. They'll let us go some time, don't worry."

"You're avoiding my first question."

He looks at me, and it scares me to see his gaze is a sad one.

He says, "But you were avoiding it yourself by asking another one right after it."

Damn. He's right. So I avoid admitting this by being silent. When I finish braiding his goatee, he gets the needle.

"I'll try to sew some of the deeper cuts. They'll heal better."

I extend my right arm towards him, silent and obedient.

"Enjoy yerself."

Jack is fighting with some of my hair and the needle. Hair is used for sewing wounds. It is natural to the body, or so I figure, and it disappears after a while. You don't have to pluck it out again. ... well, and besides that, we wouldn't have something else anyway. Jack is using mine, for my hair is almost two times longer than his. Then, it is not in such a poor state as is his. And it's black; he can see it better. I think, when it comes to hair, I am the one who inherited the better part of our parent's gifts. I appreciate this. I keep it braided, in what are seven or so braids; I comb it; and whenever I'm given the chance, which is not often, I wash it. Easy as that. Just lucky, I guess. For once.

"Argh, curse you!"

Jack flicks the strand to the ground, "I need another one of that hair of yours. This was a really bad one."

He reaches out and plucks one. I am too tired to react, even though it hurts. When he's beginning to sew the cut that almost splits my lip, he starts talking to me casually, to distract me, since he failed so bravely when he punched me last time. I focus on the tone of his voice because it hurts too much to listen to him anyway.

When he's moving on to the cuts on my arms, I begin to listen to him again. It doesn't hurt as much.

Jack says: "... and once we get back to the Pearl, we get ye a nice wooden eye!"

I open my clenched teeth to hiss: "You must be mad. No way I'm getting a wooden eye. You know how stupid Ragetti looks."

"One made of glass maybe?"

"Do you think it would look any better? And it would be of no use. A prosthetic will not make me see again. I don't want a substitute for the eye. It's gone and it was meant to be this way. I'm not hiding from that."

Jack is silent then, apparently thinking about what I have said. The beads in his hair jiggle faintly as he looks up, a bright smile in his eyes.

"D'you want me to embroider me name?"

I wake because there's a rumor on the aisle. Many voices. They bring in people. More prisoners. I rise to my elbows. It still hurts to move, but I feel much better now. Jack has done a good job sewing my sore skin. I look over to where the light comes from the open porch. It hurts in the empty socket every time I move my eyes. But I have got used to the headaches.

The people they bring are strange looking. Dark tan, long black hair, weird clothing. ... well, until now I have to admit they look, by description, like Jack and me. But they are not pirates, obviously. Not even sailors, it seems. ... well, sailors they could be, but not on a merchant or a Navy ship for sure. Native people from an island of Indonesia, I'd say. They wear skirts made of bamboo or some other plant. Chains with horn pendants around their necks. And I marvel at their tattoos. Very fine lines, covering their faces and chests and arms, patterns that look like plants, weaving around them in spirals and waves. I have never seen artwork of this beauty. I count seven men, and a boy that is not older than ten. Navy men lock them in the cell next to ours. They are incredibly beautiful, all of them. I have to force myself to look away. Look at Jack instead, who doesn't look beautiful at the moment. He pretends to be sleeping.

"I know you're awake." I say softly.

He shoves his hat backwards. Yawns. Glances at me.

"You moved."

"Apparently."

"Sit up."

"I can't. This far and no farther."

He gets on his knees and reaches out for me.

"You can. Give me your hand."

"I really don't want to."

Jack looks at me and frowns. "Alright then."

He returns into his sleeping position and puts the hat over his eyes once more. I lie back onto William Turner's jacket, feeling weak and ashamed suddenly. I know I should have let him help me sit up. I'm trying to avoid the pain. Any pain.

Later, it must be night by now, a soft singing comes through the air. It arises among the strange men next to us. I see Jack is sitting by my side, looking over to them, listening to the tune. He turns his head to face me when I'm stirring. I'm on my elbows again. Look at Jack. Hesitate. I'm still not anxious for more pain. But then I hold out my hand towards him. He grabs it and helps me to sit up. It does not exactly feel like what one would call comfortable. I can feel every muscle contort in the motion. I feel the skin stretch over my back. Hot and stinging. It feels like it takes a few minutes for me to sit up. I wish I could not feel at some moments. But I am sitting finally. Breathe heavily.

Listen to the singing, don't listen to the pain.

Jack holds me by the shoulders.

"Alright?" I nod: "Alright."

He moves behind me so that I can rest my back against him. So we sit for a while, hearing words in a tongue we can't understand, a strange melody that tells its own tale to everyone of us. Even the Corr men on the other side of the aisle have moved up to listen, and it seems like the singing evokes some feelings in each one of the prisoners on the Navy vessel, in that night. In one of the cells, two sparrows are sitting next to each other, dreaming of a time that is long gone, of a time when it was them against the world. It will never be like it once was. None of them feels like singing anymore.

The singer stops. The silence is like a blow, aimed at each one of us. I lean forward slowly and grasp the iron bars of the cell wall. To look over at them. One of them lifts his head and looks back at me. We keep staring for some seconds. I try to find the patterns of his facial tattoo in the eerie moonlight, and he probably wonders about the scars on my lips and cheeks. Something moves in front of him. I realize it is the boy. He turns around to face me as well. I see he is crying. Bite my lips. It must be terrible for him to be caught here, in a world he can't understand, both in language and culture. I remember I felt like that so often when I was a child. I reach up to my hair. Begin to open one of the plaits and take off a trinket. We do not exactly keep these for the looks, even though I must say I like the looks, too. They are like a purse, and these Navy men are unlikely to have heard about that because they didn't take them away. I have the bead in my hand now, tie a knot to the end. It is of bright colors and shiny silver. I reach out, as far as the bars will allow, towards the other cell.

"Ah ... what is it exactly that you are doing?", Jack asks, but I chose to ignore him.

The child is still looking at me. I can't reach it, so I toss the trinket for the rest of the way. It falls before the child's feet. The boy hesitates and looks at me, my arm still sticking out from the bars. I realize there is a tiny streak of blood traveling towards my wrist from one of the cuts. The boy watches it, too. When the drip has arrived at my knuckles, he picks up the charm and looks at it. The silver coin that is the pendant on the end of it reflects the little light that comes in through a crack in the planks. The reflection hits his face and sets a sparkle into his eyes. He looks back at me and there is a faint smile playing around his lips. I feel my lips part to smile back at him.

A man in a white shirt appears in front of our cell. "Gentlemen, my name is Stevens. I am the surgeon of this vessel."

"You heard the fuss Doc Stevens is making about them pirates?"

William Turner shook his head no. The crewman leaned closer to him: "He told the Captain that we were nothing but animals if we kept them in the hold like that. The Doc was actually screaming, something like, 'We are Englishmen, not savages!' Because one of them is hurt and things. He actually made the Captain move them to sick bay. Said with all the wounded crewmen it was impossible for him to make the way to the brig daily to treat the pirate adequately. Weird guy that Stevens, is he?"

William shrugged.

"That man is really badly hurt. I saw him. I'm not sure if he can survive. I mean, he really needs the doctor."

"He's a pirate, for goodness sake. We should hang him, shoot him or throw him overboard, not waste medication on him."

"If that's what you think."

The crewman pulled a face. "Well, then do you think he would take pity on you if he found you hurt and he came to claim all your possessions?"

"I ..." William had to think about that. "I don't know. Maybe. But then ... he might not."

The other man laughed. "Sure as bloody hell not!"

William looked at him: "But does that change the situation? What else but pirates would we be if we chose not to help him?"

"Oh please, Turner. A true miracle you survived until now."

"Did your cell mate sew the cuts?"

"Yes."

"Astoundingly well done. Given he relied on such poor means. He's your brother, isn't he?"

"Indeed."

"Will you tell me your name?"

I frown: "Of course. Is there a reason why I should not?"

The surgeon thinks about that, and when he shakes his head, I say: "Hal Sparrow."

I wonder why he hasn't heard it when they branded us. Maybe he wasn't there. Or he just doesn't know what else to say to me.

He states: "Very well."

"What is your name, then?"

"I already told you it was Stevens."

"I told you I am Hal Sparrow. What is your first name?"

"This is not proper manners, and none of your business."

"It may have escaped your grasp, but I am a criminal. Manners is not what is expected to be found with me, and everything is my business."

"Oh, and he is, too, a man of wit." He turns around, and says, over his shoulder: "You shouldn't do that much of a talking with that wound in your lip."

I'm dropping in an out of sleep, and I have strange dreams due to the fever. I don't know how many days pass. Some days. Many days.

"What has happened to you?"

"What do you mean? Where I got the wounds from? Since you're a doctor, I would hope you recognize them as flogging wounds."

I look him into his eyes when I say this, and am amazed at how uncomfortable it makes him feel.

"So do you mean why I was beaten?"

When I say 'beaten', he looks away. I smile. Aye, they beat me. No need for you to feel ashamed of that. Interesting you do, though.

He hesitates, then he says: "Why, yes."

"The pirate Captain whose crew is in the hold-"

Jack interferes, "The OTHER pirate Captain whose crew is in the hold."

I have to grin on that, then I continue: "Captain Corr, whose crew happens to be held prisoner on this vessel as well, he is not exactly what one would consider one of our dearest friends. We had an argument, just the way it happens when people who are in the same business disagree. What you see on my torso is the result."

Jack grins now: "You are so well spoken, Hal."

I grin too. "I know."

The young Ensign who is in charge of prisoner surveillance watches us. He's a few years younger than me. And he looks worn out. Incredibly worn out. Probably the first time he is among so many bad men. Lascars, pirates, savages, any you're in charge of them all, now can it get worse? I notice him staring at me since he came down here. I must be a sight for sure, beaten up as I am, a bloody cloth stuffed inside where once my eye has been. I know the lascars are always quite a sight to other sailors, all shiny and colorful, but mind you, lethal; and we know that wounded men do attract spectators, just as executions do. Now, I wonder, what sort of an attraction must a wounded lascar be? The Ensign does think me sleeping for certain, because he is venturing pretty close to observe. I, for my part, observe him through a barely opened eye. When his face approaches mine, I have to fight the notion of screaming 'boo!' at him. He looks at the cloth covering my eye.

And I whisper: "Do you want me to take it off?"

I must say the effect is rather similar to boo-ing him. He jerks backwards in a start and gasps. I smirk, turn my head to face him, now with my eye open.

"Really, it's not a problem. If you are interested, come and take a closer look."

He throws a stern glance at me and then he is off, quickly.

Jack eyes me: "You know it's not an extraordinarily brilliant idea to mistreat that gentleman." Then he chuckles, "T'was funny, though."

"Jack?" I ask into the darkness.

No answer. I sit up slowly. To find Jack by my side, sleeping. I feel a smile tracing its way across my face. I love to watch him in his sleep. I'm feeling protective over him, in a way. He's the older brother, sure, and he has always been there to care for me. But then ... he's really not that much older. Three years. I mean what is that. And we have been together all our lives basically. Well, been together continually since Jack came back from Europe. I was about 10 at that time. So for eleven years now, we have been sailing together. And I have always seen to taking a little care of him, too, if I can dare say. I don't dare say that to him for sure. Well, I dare say, but I chose not to. I see no need to wake a sleeping dog. Or a sleeping pirate. I reach over to him, to brush his hair out of his face. When I touch his cheek, I twitch back, startled. He is hot. Steaming hot. "Jack!" I reach out and take his face in my hands. Drops of his sweat run down his face and onto the backs of my hands. I wipe his brow.

"Good Gracious ... Jack! Wake up!"

He's unconscious, shallow breath.

"Stevens!" I scream, "Stevens! Help me!"

The surgeon appears. I look up at him, still holding Jack's face in my hands. "Please, help him. He's taken ill."

And this time, it's me, sitting by Jack's side, his head in my lap. I dry the sweat on his forehead. I stroke his cheek. I hold his hand. I'm kneeling beside him, even though my skin hurts and my joints hurt and headaches are rolling to and fro in my mind.

Why, tell me why this happens to me? Tell me why they beat the shit out of me and now I am here, I chose not to die for whoever's sake and now Jack might die for no sake at all. Don't do this to me, I can't handle that. I can't even sit straight. I can't even move my legs properly. It feels as if three sharks chew at my back whenever I move. Every turning of my head makes sweat break out of every pore I have. I am so tired. Please, I cannot go through this with him. I need his help. I have nothing to give. Please, let me sleep. Him being sick is the last thing I need at the moment.

God, why am I thinking like this. He was there for me when he could have escaped the Navy. He did not leave me. I owe this to him. I wipe sweat from my forehead with the back of my hand. Okay ... I can do this. I can handle this. I'm feeling perfectly well. I'm strong. I am there for him. I will help him through this.

Jack stares at me. I hold out the charm in my right hand, for him to look at.

"Look what Kala gave me!"

It's a tiny chain, with even tinier pendants. Jack's eyes sparkle.

"Give it to me!"

I withdraw my hand.

"But it's mine. She gave it to me."

"I want one, too!"

I look at the shiny silver on my palm. Shall I give it to him if he wants it, is it fair if I have one and he has not? But Kala gave it to me and she said she made it for me especially. What would Jack give me in return? Or would he give it to me if it were his? No. He would tease me. So what reason have I got to be nice? I grin and wave it in front of his face.

"But you can't have it. It's MINE!"

Jack lets out a cry and jumps at me, I shriek and run off. He's following me, swearing loudly.

I wake when a drip of sweat from my nose falls down onto Jack's neck. I wipe my face. I have been asleep sitting up. I am so tired. I am so hungry. I am incredibly thirsty. I have used all my water rations on Jack. He is so hot, he sweats so much, he needs every drop of fluid he can get. Well, aside from my sweat maybe. I wipe his neck clear.

"Jack? Can you hear me?"

He cannot hear me.

I stand with my back against the wall, and there are shivers running down my spine. I feel my jaw is trembling. My palms lie flat on the cold stones. I'm dead scared, I am so scared. So scared I can't open my eyes. I feel my breath passing my lips. I feel him close. And he's coming closer. He pushes me against the stone. Is it not enough he almost flogged me to death, and took my eye? I want to get away. He sinks his hand into my hair. Turns my head to face him.

"Open your eye."

I will not. I dare not.

"Open ... your ... eye."

Slowly, my lids part, even tough I press them shut. No, wait, my lids are closed. But I can see through them suddenly. I don't want to look at him, I don't want to see him. But I must. So I look up.

And see Jack.

"I have something for you."

A hand on my shoulder, I wake with a start, my head jerks to the left, my hand grabs the arm that reached for me, I have to turn my head a little further to see with my good eye. And I see the young Ensign, the one who is in charge. I need a few seconds to fully recognize him. I keep staring at him with my eye wide open, my head turned unnaturally far to the left. Breathing hard, my mouth gaping. Shadows of a nightmare still smoking in my mind.

Then I close my mouth, and blink. Gulp. Slowly shake my head, as if to scatter the clouds surrounding my head. I look at Jack, then back at the Navy man.

"Pardon me?"

I am shocked how weak and feeble my voice sounds at that moment. He holds out a canteen for me.

"I have some more water for you."

I take the bottle and drink eagerly. The water floats down my throat. It feels incredibly good. I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. And sigh. The holes in my lip hurt when I touch them. They are not closing correctly. I hand the canteen back to him.

"Thank you. You are kind."

He holds the bottle in his hands, turning it.

"No," he says, "I am just in charge."

I smile on that. Always by the book.

"I thank you either way."

"Better not thank me too early."

I frown, "How could I possibly thank you too early for a thing you have already done?"

He wants to answer that, but then he closes his mouth he as already opened to speak.


	7. Not Who You Think It Is

**Interlude**

I hear the Commodore approaching. Raise my head.

"Commodore Norrington. Now what is it this time. You changed the straw. You brought me water, and food, and my dog. You sent the doctor around. And you stop by every thirty minutes to inquire about my current state of being. I have to say I begin to feel pampered. Aren't you afraid your Marines will start to worry about you?"

I think I see something like a smile on the dear Commodore's face. "I am glad you are enjoying your stay, Captain Sparrow."

I really have to laugh on that. "Christ in a cannon, Commodore, now there was some irony in that. Sarcasm even."

Norrington regains his countenance. "Captain Sparrow, I am here to inform you that you have a visitor."

My grin fades. I hiss, "But I told you I don't want to see him."

The Commodore shakes his head. "I think it is not who you think it is."

On that, he steps aside. And makes way for a small person in Punjabi clothes. I am on my feet in an instant.

"Rashjid." Two steps and I am at the bars. Norrington gives me a nod and retreats to the far end of the corridor. I stare at the man on the other side. The Hindu pats the dog's head through the bars.

"Why did you come?" I ask. But he just smiles at me. I realize I almost asked him about how Maggie was. Whenever I have seen or talked to Rashjid in the last 20 years, my second line for him has always been: 'How's Maggie?'

"Have you been to … the funeral?" Margaret's funeral. I look into his eyes for a while. He nods. And he is just there, and looks back at me.

And in this moment, I feel all my power leaving me, and I am on my knees on the floor, leaning against the bars, and I am shaking. I am some sort of beyond tears, which scares me all the more. And I whisper to him, searching his gaze, without taking another breath.

"Please help me. I am so afraid. I can't get through this. I can't go out there and face them. I can't walk up and keep standing through it. I don't want to hear the shouting again. I can't bear their anger. I can't look into their faces. I can't go through the pain. I am so scared. I can't see Jack again. If Pearl is there, I'm gonna break down. I can't look at her. She's so much like her. She looks so much like her. God, what can I do? I don't want to die up there, in front of them all. I'm afraid to live, too. What is left? Where could I go? Where will I go if I die? Is she gonna be there? What if there's nothing, just, nothing. I'm so afraid. I can't go through this alone."

I reach out through the bars and I cling to him.

"Please, please don't leave. Please stay with me."

And slowly he kneels down and puts his hands in through the metal strands separating us, and I feel his fingers searching their way onto my shoulders. There is this knot in my throat. I want to cry. For once I really want to. But I can't. And so I try to cling to him, try to press my face into his clothes through the metal, try to disappear in his embrace.

And we stay like that for a while. Finally, my hands come to rest in his lap, and I'm folding my fingers.

Then, I say, and I'm not looking at him: "Will you keep the dog?"

"I will."

"Will you make sure my daughter gets my blade?"

"I will."

I sigh. It is a great thing that I want to ask next. But whom can I ask if not him. They will take my dead body to Deadman's Point, where it will hang and twist in the wind, as a warning to other pirates. It is a crime to take the bodies down. It is a crime to give burial. It is no small matter to risk the life of another. But there is no other who I can ask to do it. If he will. God I can't say this. I don't even want to think it. But my lips say it for me, and a voice that sounds remotely like my own.

"Will you go and make sure my body is burnt, and straw the ashes into a strong east wind far out on sea?"

It is a hard thing I ask. A great risk, to his life. We both know it.

I hear no answer. My heart sinks. I press my forehead against the bars in despair, and sigh as I let go the breath I did not even know I was holding. My hands in his lap tighten the tiniest bit and I am about to pat his thigh to tell him it is alright. I understand.

I look up suddenly as I feel his hands covering mine. I stare into the clearest and calmest eyes I have ever seen. I see his answer long before I hear it.

"I will."

"Good Lord, I thought I wouldn't be able to ask anybody." That is relief. Thank you.

"You do well."

I cough on that. That was almost sarcastic.

"I don't know if you know you want to hear that, but the Black Lotus is at anchor on the other side of the island. Your crew is coming to bid you farewell."

"Are they mad? They will get caught!" I look at him confused.

"They said they won't. They all want to see you. They say they know you don't want to be rescued, and they won't try therefore, but they have been sailing with you for all these years and they won't leave you alone on this day."

Now I am sobbing, and I am thankful of that.

"My God. I love them. I am so thankful that they are here. Although I had rather they wouldn't be. For their sake. For my sake, I can't tell them how grateful I am."

"So I will tell them, though I do not need to do this. They know."

They know. It is good to know that. Some small part of me lightens to hear this. And another part of me worries for their safety. My crew. They will come.

Who else will come? The dear Commodore, well, as a matter of fact he'll be there. But then … who will be there, on my side? Jack? Rashjid? I don't know about them.

Rashjid. I remember the day I met him first. on a slave market in India.


	8. Slave Market

**Note:** _Back after a while. cough This is, as unbelievably as that sounds, a new chapter. Yay. Yeah I sort of can't believe it myself. It is set back in the brig of the Navy ship._

Chapter 6 

**Slave Market**

The man pulls me up by my arms.

"What is going on?" I have been well asleep.

"Shut up and don't speak again."

He is the slave trader. They are not keeping us as crew on the Navy vessel. We're too dangerous. Can't risk leaving us around weapons. Clever men they are. Or maybe they don't want to wait for our wounds to heal, our fever to subside. So they are selling us as slaves, or that's what William Turner sneaked to the brig. The same goes for the tribal people. Nobody can understand them, and they are considered retarded, savage cannibals, so it makes no sense to try and make them crew.

The man turns me around and studies me.

"You're the one that was flogged."

"Gosh, I wonder how you figured that out."

He slaps me hard. For a moment, I see stars dancing merrily in front of my eye. He didn't hit me with his fist, but with his palm. I'm not bleeding, but my ears are ringing, and spit drips from my lip. He pulls me up from my knees by grabbing my collar.

"I told you to be silent. Nod, or shake your head when I ask you. I'm not the least interested in hearing your voice." He's incredibly huge. Am I frightened? I look into his eyes.

"Show me the wounds."

I keep staring.

"Get out of that shirt!"

I do as he tells me. He examines the cuts. His hands on my skin feel awful, and I am no more than a piece of meat to him. Cattle on the market. I shudder. The feeling is not pleasant. At all. After a while he paints a price onto a slate with a chalk, and hangs it around my neck on strings. He attaches a chain to my hands, and another one to my collar.

And as easy as this, we finally became stock to be sold on the market.

- - -

India. The heat of the sun glistens in the air. The tribal men from the brig, Jack and me. We're going to be slaves. Kept chained like animals, without shade, waiting to be auctioned off. Not even wearing shirts. I can feel my flesh roasting.

Jack turns and twists.

"I can't see it, dammit." Every time he moves, he almost strangles me. Our necks are connected with a chain.

"Will you please stop that?", I groan.

"Will you tell me what it says?"

He is very upset. I grin. He has his price label on his back. It flipped over to there when he talked the slave trader into punching him. Since then he can't bring it back to his front, and he's dying to find out how much it is saying – because he saw mine and he really wants to know whom of us is going for more. I could tell him who it is, but then … why spoil all the fun? I can easily bear that pain in my neck, just for the torment in his face. I smirk. When it comes down to … we're just pirates.

I mean, if he would ask me to flip the sign back to his front, I certainly would do it. But I know he will never ask.

And so the hours pass.

A while later, Jack has passed out on the ground, from the heat and the dehydration, and because there is the fever growing stronger in him. The chain around our necks pulls me down with him, and I decide just to wait. I can't do much anyway. And so I kneel there with my head hanging, eye closed, listening to the heat of the sun on my shoulders, the subtle sting of the stitches in my back, the pulsating of blood under cloth stuffed in the empty eye socket, my shallow breathing, the sweat running down from my scalp, over my cheek, down my jaw line, onto my collarbone, and I just hold Jack's hand.

After a while the overseer comes to us, to presumably take us to the auction. But there is no way he can wake up Jack. So he removes the neck chain, to get me out of the way, because he's not giving up on Jack easily, turning his attention back to my brother. I'm not leaving Jack here, that's what I think when I see one of the soldiers walking past with what clearly is my sword. Now if that's not fate I don't know.

I feel the ideas clicking into place in my head, and I move very quickly. I'm close to the ground, behind the overseer, in one moment, and I'm crouching below the soldier, in the next, wrapping my fingers around the hilt of the katana. Just after I unsheathe the blade, screaming rises. There is a little girl close by, and I grab her without a second thought. Pull her close, wrapping my left arm around her shoulders. And bring the edge of the blade to her throat in a swift motion.

The sweet scent of jasmine hits me, and I see the sharp contrast of my skin covered in filth and blood on the bright and shiny starch of her dress. I'm not looking at her face, but her red hair is very close to my cheek suddenly. My heartbeat's fast. She's not struggling, dammit, why is that little thing not struggling. I feel it's not because she is afraid. Because she is not afraid. And for a second, I am afraid.

"Release her." I hear the overseer say. I shake my head, slowly moving backwards.

"Come one step closer and I'll slit her throat."

The Ensign that gave me water in the brig moves forward, and draws his gun on me. "Release the girl."

"I'm sorry, but you'll have to shoot me then." I feel the wall in my back. Okay. Good plan, Hal Sparrow, but what now? What exactly were you trying to do?

"Don't do anything you'll regret afterwards," the young Ensign tells me.

I laugh. He's a sweet guy. Does he really think that I would regret killing this girl? Lad, I have done worse things. I move the blade, and feel it cutting her skin.

And after a while, when we just stay that way and nobody moves, it comes to me that in reality, nobody is coming to her aid. If I had wanted to, I could have killed her.

I feel laughter slowly crawling up my throat. Hoarsely and silently, and I let the blade slip, slip away from her throat, dangle down to the sand from a tired arm. Instead, I hug the little girl from behind, brushing a hand over her cheek quickly. Lean forward to whisper in her ear.

"I'm sorry, Milady. Didn't mean no inconvenience. Seems to me that you're not of very much more worth than I am. At least to them. To me, you're the only gem in a chest of stones."

With that I lay the sword down, carefully, into the sand, and stand up, to lean against the wall with my hands unarmed and open. The slave trader moves forward and hits me. And a second time when I don't go down instantly. I meet his glance and say:

"Wait. If you want to see me on my knees, all you have to do is ask."

I drop to the ground before him, but I'm not letting go of his gaze. He holds his breath. And for a moment, I'm not sure who of us is the one on his knees.

Some silent seconds pass before he gulps. Then, he informs me:

"It was a wise move not to kill the little Miss. She just bought you and your friend."

- - -

Ensign Norrington watched the strange parade from behind. He and a group of Marines guarded the little party from the slave market to the tea plantation. It clearly was not a wise move of the British noble family to leave a little girl and a single Indian servant in so vicious a place as a slave market. He had felt obliged to take care of them, and had been relieved when he was told that these were his orders.

Norrington shifted in the saddle of his sorrel and turned the horse, to follow the party. He really did wonder where Mistress Neats' parents were. The girl definitely had no sense for danger. A couple of minutes ago, she had taken one of the pirates in the carriage, because he was – pretending or not – being unable to walk. Of course against the Ensign's protests. Norrington was indeed convinced that the vile man was only pretending, since the one he called his brother had been in a worse state for weeks now, and he was walking. The Ensign's glance shifted to said brother, that was stumbling along in line with the Polynesian slaves. Now he was a weird one. The older brother, he was a pirate, that was definite. A dishonest man, a thief, a murderer. And there was nothing more about him. Nothing. But what with this one? He had the manners of a noble man, and he was educated. He was not acting like a pirate. Maybe that was the catch with him, what made him especially dangerous. And yet there were the traces of his lifestyle allover him. Scars and bruises and tattoos. When Norrington had seen him first, he had been convinced that he wouldn't last two days. But there he was, still covered in festering scars, but he was walking upright. Well, nearly. It was apparent that he had trouble keeping pace with the others. But there he was. The other day, he'd tried to escape, taking young Mistress Neats hostage. Not a wise move, and one that didn't work out, but nonetheless it was stunning that he had been physically capable of performing it.

The Ensign dabbed sweat from his forehead with his handkerchief. Some days ago, he had watched the pirates sleep from a distance. And he had told the Marine next to him how astounded he was that the young one had the will to continue living. A while later he had passed by the sleeping figure, and suddenly, a chained hand had grabbed hold of his coat. With still closed eyes, the man had said that it was not so much a matter of being willed to live, but rather plainly refusing to die. Now that the fun really began. Norrington had ripped his coat loose and left him behind quickly.

What was curious about these two pirates was the thing going on in between them. They did look enough alike to really be brothers. But even if they were not, there was a bond so strong with them that it frightened the Ensign. He would have called it love, or rather brotherly love, but notions like these were entirely impossible with folk as those two were. He would assume that these values had died among criminals. All the more the pirates did irritate him. He couldn't categorize them as he was used to.

The mare shifted its head, trying to scatter the flies surrounding it, but failed. So Norrington leaned forward and killed an especially big insect that sat behind the animal's ears. That was when he heard loud voices. He glanced around and saw that the source of the turmoil was among the Polynesian men. The child they had with them, the boy, he lay on the ground motionless. Norrington shook his head. Not much to his surprise, all that. The slaves hadn't been given much food, and definitely too little water. A child as young as this, in a climate as unpleasant as here … . He sighed, and got out his pistol. An overseer and the boy's father – he was still chained to the other slaves – sat crouched beside the child. The father did indeed look as if he was close to tears, which was an irritating complexion on a huge, muscular savage as he was, especially with the swirling black tattoos on his face. One wouldn't expect a man like him to cry. Well this voyage was full of surprises. Solitary British noble children, brotherly love between educated pirates, crying savages. Norrington did indeed wonder if flying tigers would appear at any second. The overseer now shook his head. He turned around to Norrington.

"Sir, the boy is very ill, he can impossible keep walking."

All right then, the boy was dead, or otherwise close to that state. Norrington gave the man a nod and raised his pistol.

"Very well. We can't burden us with him, we have to move on. I will explain this to the plantation owner. Get out of the way," he informed the overseer, "I will end his suffering quickly."

The huge man shifted, and pulled the savage with him. The man uttered a cry, and resisted. The other slaves moved to help. Immediately, the Marines surrounded them and moved them away from the boy. The screaming rose. Norrington aimed at the child. Then, in the corner of his eye he saw movement.

When he turned, he saw the pirate stepping forth, the younger one, scars dark with sunburn, skin peeling on his shoulders. He stepped forward, his stance a non-threatening one, chained hands lowered, but nonetheless determined. Moved in between Norrington and the boy that now lay shivering on the ground. His eyes on the Navy officer all the time, he positioned himself with his forehead almost against the muzzle of the Ensign's pistol. His one eye, dark and bloodshot and tired, locked with Norrington's. And part of the Ensign knew right then that this was over. He looked into the man's eye and felt shivers running down his back. He'd never had somebody looking at him like this, not even with two eyes, being more powerful. Then, the pirate parted cracked lips and spoke, in a low but clear voice.

"If you want to shoot him, shoot me first, and explain the loss of two slaves to the plantation owner."

Norrington's hand with the pistol began to tire from the strain of keeping it still. He didn't want to have it look like his hand was shaking with fear.

"Move out of the way! We cannot burden us with another sick person. There is no more room in the carriage because your presumably sick brother requires it all!"

The pirate didn't move.

"You will not leave him behind like a piece of leftover baggage beside the road. He is alive. He is sick, and tired. Give him a chance to survive. I will carry him."

Norrington threw the man a glance that was almost shocked. Now there was the guy that was probably in the worst state of the whole party, and he was offering to carry the sick child. That was beyond any category Norrington could imagine. He lowered the pistol. The pirate was mad.

"Very well. If you are willing to do so, go ahead. But I warn you, if you strain yourself to the point of collapse, I will not offer you the same deliverance." The Ensign pointed to his pistol. "I will leave you behind, for the tigers to feast on."

To his surprise, the pirate smiled.

"I would be pleased to sacrifice my sorry life on the altar of beings as noble as tigers. But no worries there. I will carry the boy all the way, rest assured." With that, he turned, turned his scarred back on Norrington. He kneeled down next to the boy and touched his face carefully, feeling the heat. Then, he slowly wrapped his arms around the small form of the child and lifted him up. The strain of it was clearly visible to Norrington. Not all of the stitched cuts on his back would hold. The Ensign opened his mouth to say something, but what was there to say to a man like that? So he turned the mare and pressed his legs to its flanks. That way, he didn't see the pirate softly whispering to the boy in his arms, slowly picking up speed as he followed the party deeper into the jungle. But for the rest of the way, the Ensign felt as though there was the man's look on his back. Just whenever he turned, the pirate wasn't even remotely looking in his direction.

- - -

I know the child will die when I look into his face and he opens his eyes to look back at me. I can see the dark shadows of death inside those eyes. I can see his pain, standing out clear in front of me. I can feel death's hand on my shoulder, telling me it is too late. But I refuse to listen.

The boy is dead two hours before we reach the tea plantation. But I refuse to let the soldiers know. I bury his face in my shoulder and carry on, pulling him close, feeling the warmth desert his thin body. Just as if the mere presence of his form in my arms would give me the will to go on although there is no feeling left in my back. Only when we have reached our destination, I slowly go down on my knees and carefully set the body to the ground. I look at him, and with all my heart, I do hope he would wake up again.

He does not. I slowly raise my head to the sky. I would like to cry, but I'm spent. So all I bring forth is a sob, hoarse and inappropriate to the tragedy of the situation. Then, I let my head fall forward, and I droop over the dead body of the child, my arms buried in between his cold chest and mine, hot with fever. I close my eyes and I ask death if he can take me along because I simply am too tired to draw breath.

But death turns and laughs and waves a hand.


	9. I Could

**Interlude**

**Note:**_ Hal is visited by his daughter Pearl who offers to get him out of the cell. Hal refuses. Pearl picks the cell's lock and tells him she'll leave it up to him. She leaves the cell door open._

I hear Norrington's steps on the ground long before the man himself appears, in shirtsleeves, and the hurry he always puts himself into when he comes walking by the cell. Are you running away from me?

When he sees the unlocked door that has opened for a few inches, he stops dead in the corridor.

"What!"

He looks at the door, looks at me, still sitting in the corner, legs crossed, looks back at the door. I'm not looking at him. I'm looking at my hands.

"Had to get some fresh air," I say. I meant it to be a joke but my voice comes out completely devoid of any emotion.

"Who opened the door?" he asks while he closes it, picks up the lock and attaches it again. He's giving me strange looks while he does it.

"I had a talented visitor."

He looks around, then shudders a bit. Begins to rub his right upper arm with his left hand, as if hugging himself, as if feeling the person's spirit still in the room.

"Pearl."

I nod. "Pearl."

"How did she … who allowed her … how could she?"

I brush a strand of hair behind my ear. "Many questions, Commodore, and all of them unimportant. Your guards could have kept her out. They didn't. She was such a pretty wench, and so sad. She could have left the door locked. She didn't. She wanted to be close to her father for one last time. I could have fled. I didn't. Because I chose to be here. Have you noticed? You're not keeping me here, nor are these bars, the walls, the soldiers, the fort. It is me who's keeping me here."

He is standing very close at the bars, listening, trying to understand – me, Pearl – whoever, really. And he clearly isn't prepared for what comes next.

I was sitting in the corner, calm and still, but in the next second I stand before him, hands shooting through the bars, and I grab his collar, pull him towards me sharply until our noses touch. Hear his body bump into iron. Feel his heart skip a beat. He looks at me, eyes wide with fear. My fingers tighten around his throat, making his breathing difficult. And I laugh.

"I could kill you now, Commodore. Kill you now with one simple movement. And what is really scary is that I always could."

Little droplets of my spit hit his face.

"I could have fought. I could have killed Jack. I could have run. I could have saved myself."

His face is turning red now. Sweat runs down his forehead. He's holding onto the bars to support himself.

"I could have taken all your possessions. I could have killed your son. I could have left your wife to die alone." I inhale sharply. He doesn't, because he can't. "And I didn't. Didn't do anything of it. Because I chose. I didn't want to."

With that I let go of his throat, watch him go down to his knees, coughing, gagging, spitting. I keep standing where I am, calm, and still again. He looks up at me out of bloodshot eyes. Can't speak, but his gaze is full of questions.

/Why? Why did you do that/

"Why? Because I could. Now that was a surprise, wasn't it? You wouldn't have expected this good man to attack you. Because I surrendered. Because I was calm, and polite, and overall, not looking dangerous. But you have seen it, have seen it happening. Have seen me turn from saint to scoundrel in the break of a second. You have seen blood on my blade. On my bare hands. You have seen me in battle. You know what I can do. But you trusted that I wouldn't do it. Because we are … friends. Whatever that means. And then … I did what always was possible for me to do. And you couldn't scream for help. You couldn't breathe. You couldn't escape. You were … at my mercy. And I could have killed you. But I didn't. Because … I didn't want to."

He's breathing hard. And he's trapped in my gaze. He can't look away. Can't speak because his mouth is dry. And so I go on.

"I have one simple question for you."

My voice is clear. And I'm standing my ground easily.

"What do you want? You – not the Commodore, not the Military man, not the father, not the victim's husband. You. Edward. What do you want?"

I go down on my knees before him, until our faces are at the same level. Then, I slowly put my hand through the bars again, to lay a cool palm softly onto his cheek. My thumb wipes away sweat from under his eye. And I ask. The one thing I want to ask him since I came here.

"Do you want me to die?"

He stares, eyes wide, unable to blink. Holds his breath. Finally, he breaks the lock of my gaze. Stumbles to his feet and runs.

Runs away.


	10. The Little Memsahib

**Chapter 7**

**The little Memsahib**

**Note: **_A chapter written by Pendragginink, finally! Only took me 4 months to upload it._

Out of the brig, into the sunlight. 

Ensign Norrington coughed, smothered by the dust and smells of the slave market. He cleared his throat and, after a quick look around, spat red into the garbage littering the street. Dust, the red dust that seemed to be everywhere. He stepped back into the shade of the bamboo hedge, grateful for the slight relief from the heat and sun, feeling just a bit guilty watching the slaves, who had no option but to remain in the sun, chained as they were. He tried to tell himself that they deserved this treatment, being criminals, and tried NOT to think of how hot the iron cuff and collars would be in the sun. Hot enough to blister the skin he imagined. He wished there were an awning over the slave pen, criminals or no.

There were currently four slaves on the block. One of them, one of the pirates, the older kept going down on his knees, which dragged on the necks of the younger pirate and the other two slaves on the block.

The other two slaves were sold quickly, and two more were chained in their place. But was the second, possibly third day that the young pirates had been there, Norrintong could tell from the blistered and blackened sunburn on their shoulders and upper backs.

On the block in the sun, the younger pirate, what did he say his name was? Hal. Hal stood still, but his brother kept twisting, looking over his shoulder. The ensign wondered at such antics a while until it dawned on him that he was trying to see the price chalked on the slate each slave on the block wore hanging from his neck. The slave handler kept whacking him with a small whip to get him to stop squirming and stand still.

The sun would soon make the slate too hot for his back. And then the pirate would wiggle the slate around until it lay on his chest, where he couldn't see the price either. He wondered why he simply didn't ask someone what the price was. And he wondered why it mattered to the man. Then he did hear the pirate ask the other something. The other looked at the first man's slate and then merely grinned at him, and remained silent.

Norrinton wondered how it was for them to be there on the block, other than the broiling sun and the thirst, for no water had been given them for hours. Neither Hal nor his brother, what was his name? Norrington didn't remember. Neither seemed to be ashamed to be on the block. He himself would be humiliated: an Englishman, on display like that, he was embarrassed for them.

The young pirate noticed the Navy man eyeing him with interest and for a few moments they had a staring contest, until Norrington realized that he was playing with a pirate as if he were an equal or a worthy enemy. He was appalled at his laps in decorum. Hal saw Norrington look away first, and grinned. Norrington would have been appalled again if he had known that he had not seen the grin, but the sailor with him, Turner, did, as did the other pirate, and they also grinned. In the deep shadows, the silent figure of a Hindi, turbaned, but wearing the livery of a British servant, showed white teeth as he watched them all. His grin faded as he saw that the one whom he served had somehow moved from the shade to the streetside and was watching the scene as well, and was remaining unnoticed, though in plain sight. /I must learn how that is done/

For his part, William Turner, sweating and uncomfortable in his smothering uniform, very bad for ALL the slaves, especially the Sparrows, because he knew that aside from being thirsty and half starved that they were sick, feverish. He kept seeing himself in their place, and knew that he would have been a whimpering quivering mass by this time. But they were Englishmen, after all, and therefore strong and hardy. He could not help feeling proud to be their countrymen, even if they were criminals. No one started out a pirate, and as for that, he wasn't too sure about some of the questionable activities the captain of the East India ship was pursuing.

Hal stood between the sun and Jack, he was the one with the fever after all.Sun like this could cook a man's brains in his skull for him. He wasn't too sure his weren't already cooked. A little while ago, he began hallucinating, maybe hallucinating. He thought he saw Barbossa in the crowd but Jack did not. Hal knew Barbossa had seen them, if it was him, and Hal had waited, sort of expecting him to buy them, but Barbossa, if it was him, just looked and gave a tiny smile and went on—but it meant the Pearl was off down the coast somewhere … .

The grinning Hindu wanted to buy them. Hal was sure of that. He seemed impressed that Hal did slave-seller patter, advertising for Jack and himself in several Indian dialects, including Hindi. The Hindu was interested, but perhaps only entertained, for nothing came of the interest as the day wore on.

The neck rings cut their necks. They had to keep holding them up, and finally Hal tore strips off his off his ragged clothes to wrap the iron rings, to pad them, even if a little. Jack tried to foist him off, but Hal insisted and finally won out, though Jack did make him wrap his own collar first.

By the morning of the third day, Jack was weakening, and Hal was out of ways to help him. He was amazed that he was even allowed to but he supposed that a slave passed out cold is difficult to sell.

He tried to help him stand, for if they one sat, the chain dragged on the neck of the other, and there was the slave master with his little whip to consider. He talked to Jack in a low voice about some memories they shared and asked him about an ancient spell Jack had once spoken of, but he couldn't keep it up for ever. Thirst won out. So, he settled for standing with hunched shoulders and letting Jack sit close, leaning on his legs for support. He kept moving around Jack as the day wore on, to keep his fevered brother in what little shade his body provided.

He tried to keep his attention on his surroundings, and not the weakness. /Listen to me, don't listen to the pain./

By the evening of the second day, the blisters on their sunburn were the size of chicken eggs. He suggested to the slave master that he at least be allowed some mud to spread on their shoulders, but the slave master only grunted at him, and lashed him again for talking.

To distract himself, he took detailed note of the denizens of the marketplace. Ensign Norrington and that Turner fellow seemed to be on duty of some kind. Guarding what? The property of the East India Company? Not likely. They stood in the shade under an awning where Hal had fist seen an European woman or child, he couldn't tell sitting. But if she were I the deep shade of the awning now, he couldn't say. If they were guarding her, it wasn't a wonder. For an European woman to get through a far east open air crowded market without being kidnapped, would have been nigh onto impossible.

And the navy men had stood close to the young girl who came near the auction platform that morning. Though she was guarded by the Hindu, whom Norrington didn't even seem to notice. He wondered if the young ensign realized that he himself was in as much danger as the girl.

And there was danger. Hal saw it. The Hindu saw it. And the furtive eyes looked as often at the two young navy men as they did at the girl. More actually, for once the Hindu had grinned at would be abductors, they lost interest in her. Hal figured she must be the mistress of an East India agent. She looked too young for a wife, and who would bring their wife or daughter here to this den of iniquity. He finally concluded that she was the concubine of some local moghal, probably a mix, the light skinned daughter of a local servant. She wasn't British, that he knew, English hadn't been her first language, in her voice were too sharply blended the mellow tones of the Punjab with the nasal twang of Kallikut, and she was light enough to be part Brahmin.

The platform they were chained to was set so you could walk completely around it, and see the slaves from all angles. The longer they were on display, the fewer buyers came to look. Eventually, the slave monger grew tired of calling to potential buyers and fastened their prices around their necks on slates, which hung down in the back so that the slave seller could easily write on the slate, using their back as a desk.

The slates grew hot in the sun, but the slave monger would not allow them to shift the slates to the front from time to time. The slate in front might be taken as an attempt to cover up scars or marks. Everyone expected scars on the back, but burns or lash marks on the chest indicated that this slave was "difficult to handle," and therefore not a good purchase, for most purposes, that is. Hal was amused about that. He wondered, what did lash marks ALLOVER a slave indicate?

The first day, Jack had put on a show, striding around in a circle, flexing muscles and such, and Hal got into the act as a market crier hawking the wares.

That was the first day. Hal noticed that jack was a bit off his form, not half as theatrical as he expected him to be. It didn't earn them any points with the slave monger, and as they got tired and hungry and Jack became sicker, they eventually stopped it.

- - -

The Hindu wanted to buy them simply to shut them up. He couldn't speak for the little memsahib however. She saw them. One could not help but notice them. But what impression they had made on her, he couldn't say. She was there to buy slaves to work clearing the jungles and draining the swamps, building the plantation. She went through a lot of slaves that way.

But this was the third day of the sale and she still had not made a purchase. It was her way not to buy the strongest, true, and each day the price would drop. But the cost was certainly not the issue. Not for the little memsahib.

So why was she waiting? He wondered if she would buy any slaves at all, for all that was left were the two pirates, somewhat worse for the wear, and a mob of savage warriors. The warriors would kill them all in their tracks before they even got to the plantation and the pirates would likely die on the way if they didn't get any water.

Well, there would be no harm in asking what she was up to. So he would ask her; but how to do it and still save a modicum of 'face.' He was amazed at himself that he was even considering attempting to question her motives. /What are you doing, Rashjid, what are you doing/ He just hoped she would not laugh at him too loudly. The market was not as crowded as it had been, but there were still plenty of eyes in the shadow. Not the least of which … were the little memsahib's.


	11. Getting Closer

**Interlude**

"Good Morning, Captain Sparrow. I hope you had a good night."

I rise from the straw, and dust my clothes. "Good Morning, Commodore Norrington. I had an agreeable night, given the circumstances. But it is, as always, a pleasure to see you."

He gives me this faint smile again, the faint smile that seems to be reserved for me during these last days.

"Please put your hands behind your back, Captain Sparrow."

I do as he tells me, and feel metal cuffs enclosing my wrists. The soldier that puts them on me closes them tight and they bite into my skin. I wince, though barely noticeable. But Norrington sees it. And after the soldier has turned to stand by my side, he comes to loosen them a bit. When he is so close to me, I feel his despair very clearly. Oh my. I thought this was terrible for me, waiting through days and nights in the cold, in the dark, for my death. But how terrible has it been for him. He is my friend. I know he loves me as much as I do love him. And he couldn't do anything about it. He had to wait. Wait for me. To die. For his men to kill me. He will still be there. I will be gone and he will have to cope with that. It is easy for me, once the trapdoor falls. It won't be easy for him. I feel so sorry for him suddenly. I can tell he feels responsible for it all. He is not. It was meant to be, and I am confident about it. This is what has to happen.

But I want him to feel better about this.

While the soldier drags at my arm, I lean closer to Norrington.

"This is not your fault."

He looks at me and I see utter shock on his face.

"Pardon me?"

"I don't feel sorry. Please don't feel sorry on my behalf."

He stares at me with his eyes wide open, and when I smile, he gulps.

I lean close to him for this short second.

"I loved her too."

Tears well in his eyes. I quickly look away, Lord, I didn't want to do that. But I want him to know. Desperately want him to know. Do you know, Commodore? There is one more thing I must say to him, and, not hiding my own tears but not looking at his either, in a voice so clear and steady that it even surprises me, I tell him.

"… and … I love you."

Then the soldier drags me out.

He is left standing there, alone once again, and I still feel sorry for him.

The sun on the horizon paints the sky faintly blue when the soldiers walk me out of the cell block. The air is fresh and clear, and I suck in the sea breeze hungrily. The splash of the surf, only one more time on my face.

Too late.

The stones are cold under my feet. Wet. The rain has only stopped an hour ago. I look over to catch a glimpse of the sea lying flat and calm in the morning light.

The view from the yardarm, nothing but waves all around me, and the ship sailing to where the sea and the horizon intermingle. Where the waves wash into the clouds. That view. One last time.

… too late.

The fingers of the soldiers around my arms bruise my flesh, and I wonder why they are pulling me along, when I would have walked to the gallows all alone. But my knees are weak, they are just holding me upright. Who knows if I could manage to walk there by myself. This is not an easy trip. I am scared.

A huge mass of people have gathered around the platform. Wow. You have all come to see me die.

The crowd shoves the soldiers and me around. They are like the waves on a windy day.

Diving into the clear blue once again. Diving deep, weightless. It is not as unpleasant to have the waves spit at you.

The wood of the platform is wet and rough. I'm weary, and I stumble. The soldier's grab around my arms tightens.

"I'm sorry."

What am I sorry for. I forgot.


	12. May Kali eat the Souls of the English

**Chapter 8**

May Kali eat the Souls of the English 

**Note:** _Another chapter by Pendragginink._

"What are you doing, English?" Rashjid waited for her reply, not that she would answer his question, no, for that she never did, and that interested him even more than wondering why the small British lass next to him never asked him any questions that were really questions, or ones that he could say no to. He stood as stiff and silent as only a British trained Hindu can, smiling inwardly, because of course, he was neither; he truly wondered if she knew that.

Margaret Neats didn't bother to look up at Rashjid. She knew that he had asked the question as a joke, a goad, an insult. For wasn't it he himself who had taught her that one never got information by asking for it. The trick was to observe and see what there was to see. By the time one had formulated a question, it was already too late, and the moment when the information would have been useful was past.

And they both knew she wasn't even English, or British. She just looked like it. Well, that was of no concern to her, she had nothing to do with it. Still, Rashjid could certainly prove useful at the moment, so in the spirit of the game she answered him.

"The same thing you are doing, sweating."

"Iniquitous! English ladies never do. Horses sweat, men perspire and ladies glow and I am not sweating."

"I am sweating, as you can plainly see."

Rashjid steepled his hands and bowed namaste low to her, conceding the point as she stated the obvious. She was not a man, she was certainly no lady and if he asked did she consider herself a horse she would answer him 'neigh.' Easier to admit defeat in this game of minds now, it was far too hot. They had been there in the slave market since early morning; he had had enough of the noise, the dust, the humidity, the heat, the flies and the smells. By the gods, the smells were the worst. Yet, still there she sat, prim and proper, cool and collected, not admitting to the heat by fanning herself, the very picture of a British engenue, at least she had the sense to not object when he had placed the awning over her to shade the hot Indian sun. Yes, and he supposed that one could call that fresh dewy look 'sweating,' since it was Margaret, for her, skin that showed even the least bit warmer than porcelain bisque, would be, in any other being, called sweat, even in a horse. A proper English maid, just now coming into young womanhood, of creamy complexion, bonneted and white-gloved as a good daughter of the noble class when in public, appearing innocent and unworldly in the extreme, with her full attention focused intently, as it had been all morning, on the half-naked slaves now on the auction block, though the main sale of the day had long been over. It was now nearly noon, only mad dogs and Englishmen go out in the noonday sun, was she going to make a purchase? Or not? And if so, how many did she want?

"All of them."

Her comment caught him off guard. /Now, how does she DO that/

Refusing to even think about how she answered his thoughts … either sweating or slave buying, either way, he would not give her the satisfaction, not this time. But he couldn't help peeking at her to see if she noticed. Glancing down, he thought for an instant that she was injured, bright red welling from her palm, but then the sunlight glinted on what he now could see was a ruby. But such a ruby, the size of a pigeon egg, and the color of heart's blood. Rashjid caught the ruby in front of his face, snatching at it out reflex as she tossed it into the air. He started to sweat, profusely. /A star ruby. a perfect blood red star ruby. The rarest of all gems. Rarely heard of, and then only in legend/ It was worth a kingdom, no, maybe two kingdoms. Really big ones. Just holding this could get him killed six times before sundown.

He looked at her then, as he knew she wished him to, and was able to at least not grin at her, but couldn't help the corner of his mouth turning up just a bit.

"All, memsahib?" Some of the slaves had already been sold.

"I have asked you repeatedly to call me Margaret."

"Sorry, memsahib."

"You certainly are, will you do this." He sighed. She had him, there was no way to win, if he didn't make the purchase, she would, he knew. Attending the slave auction was bad enough, sitting there in full view was scandalous but involving herself in the deal was unthinkable, not by her standards, but by his own. And she knew it.

They had been brought to the slave market in Mombai on that Navy ship that was the escort for the East India ship. /May Kali eat the souls of the English./

The navy captain would get a kickback or bribe or 10 percent of the sale of slaves; the British navy had no jurisprudence in the area other than to protect British ships, but it made sense of course, there would often be as many as five pirate ships waiting in Sunda strait for the East India ships, and there were the Dutch and Portuguese privateers, to consider, to say nothing of local pirates. They had to have the protection. They only made two trips a year: seasons and trade winds determined that. The pirates would know when to meet them. But only the British preyed upon their own kind.

Slaves not bought would be put in one of the galleys that ply the coast for the trading company where they will be chained to an oar and never see the light of day again until they are brought up as corpses and tossed over the side as a snack for sharks.

Rashjid had watched Margaret discuss this very thing with one of the British navy men who's job was to guard her. /As if she needs it./ The Navy man, Nottingham, Northington, the name was something like that, informed her that the tribal warriors would no doubt die within days. And Rashjid himself had volunteered that the stubborn British would last be no more than a year if they are fortunate. Navy had bristled at the 'stubborn' remark and asked him how he could be so sure of that.

"Because that is the longest anyone lived' when i was a galley slave." Navy's eyebrows had disappeared into his ensign's wig at that and his mouth fell open to ask how he had escaped when no one ever did. To save time, the bored Hindu explained, "No one had escaped before, but then, I was also willing to kill—anyone … for freedom." Navy grew red at that, and became interested in his shoes, knowing that the only way he could have gotten loose was to have killed the three other men he had been chained to.

Rashjid had known of course, that the pirates chained to the block had been listening to them, and that Margaret had wanted them to listen; when Rashjid looked up at them, the younger one had stared at him for a long time. /Better you are sold pirate, or die before the galleys./

He didn't even want to think about why Margaret wanted all the slaves. And these slaves in particular, most were savages, tattooed … . Tribal warriors and sick from maltreatment by all appearances. The two unfortunates chained and broiling on the block in the sun were obviously more than sick, they were dying, and one of them looked already dead, but, wasn't quite, considering how the other one had positioned himself to cast his own shade on the other and to keep the flies away. Brothers, he decided, but British, Portuguese or Romany, he couldn't say. Most likely British, as the Romany were difficult to catch, and not likely Portuguese as they cursed in English. Rashjid spat in the dust. English. Still, it didn't matter what she wanted, because she couldn't have them all.

"Some have been sold already." /That was stupid. She has been here all day, of course she will know this./ He winced, waiting for her comment: mercifully, she was silent.

"They are still there. They are available."

"I'm afraid memsahib does not understand."

"Oh, yes, 'memsahib' DOES understand. They are available." The emphasis she put on the word 'does' frightened him, right down to his sandals. He noticed that she did not say they were for sale. Available. All right then. He moved across the offal-cluttered street to look for the slave auctioneer.

The slave monger was fat and oily and asleep in the shade. Rashjid had to kick him several times to wake him. There was a slight problem with the fact that the two English slaves broiling in the sun had already been sold to the British navy, to sweat out their days in the galleys or fields of the British East India Company. But the greed of the slave monger won out and his eyes grew round at the sight of the ruby.

Worthy of a Maharaja it was

Rashjid smiled at the avarice of the man, he was so dazzled by the magnificence of the gem that it had not yet occurred to him how difficult it would be to sell, and was no doubt stolen in the first place. Gems of this quality were usually well known, as were their owners. The slave monger moved past him, to ready the slaves for transit, completing the sale and Rashjid moved to return across the street to the girl in his charge.

The stone-faced Hindu stiffened as he felt the tenor of the market place change suddenly, a frisson of chill went up his spine and he looked quickly in the direction of Margaret, scanning for her copper bright hair and her butterfly blue dress. She was gone. He scanned the market desperately: she was nowhere in sight. There was a slight hubbub behind him. He closed his eyes. He was afraid to look, for he had no doubt what he would see. He looked.

/I am cursed./ He wondered if it were simply a matter of karma or a game of the gods to heap misfortune on a man just to see how long it would take until he cracked. Instantly, the long, waved curved dagger no Thuggee assassin was ever without was in his hand and he was barreling toward the auction block, but he knew he had already failed. No Thuggee in the history of his family for two hundred generations had failed in keeping an oath once taken. And today one would. He could hear Kali laughing at him as she devoured his guts.

He would have leaped to the auction platform, but skidded to a halt as his assassin-trained senses took in all possible information he might first use to his advantage.

The slight movement of tongue on sun-peeled lips told him the man down was not yet dead, the raw brand on the arm of the man standing told him he was a pirate and had been caught by the East India Company, recently.

The infected lash marks on the man told him he had been more than punished by someone cruel, he had been their toy.

The katana the man wielded told him that the slave monger was a fool for letting the man get this far, and the man really needed instruction in the proper use of the katana, though not exactly disgraceful for an Englishman—pirate.

The arm the man had pinioning Margaret's arms and the placement of his feet told Rashjid that the man was desperate.

The cold smile on the man's face told him the man was a seasoned warrior who intended to die in battle, and not alone.

The chains that not only held him on the block but tied him to the unconscious man told Rashjid that the man had little hope of escape.

The pressure the man was putting on Margaret's throat with the katana told him that the man thought that there were those in the market place who would care for the safety of the girl.

The way Margaret leaned into the razor sharpness of the blade at her throat, and the amused look on her face as she turned her head, slicing into her own flesh a little as she moved to stare down at him, there, goggling like a fool at the base of the platform told the Hindu assassin that if there were any who did care for her welfare, Margaret certainly wasn't one of them.

Rashjid had no doubt that she had done this on purpose. /May a thousand devils eat her children./ He shrugged. Why should he care what happened to a thousand devils anyway.

"Did you get them?" Her question brought him up short. He was beyond insulted; did she really think he would fail in that simple task? And it hit him that she had known that they had already been bought. /I hate her./

Rashjid nodded.

/Why waste energy and strength with speech/ He wondered why she would even ask him that. As well he ask her what did she think she was doing making him save her, for he knew as well as she did that no one else would. /This is a terrible spot I'm in. I have taken an oath to not let her die and I have sworn to see her dead. What by Rama's beads do I do now?

The slave monger hit the pirate, who dropped to his knees without much resistance. But Margaret Neats was not yet done with him.

"It is time to go home" She turned her head towards the frenzied, bleeding, sunburned man who had held the killing blade to her throat. "I need help getting food and water to these men, and aid for that one." A slight tilt of her head indicated the pirate collapsed at their feet. "Will you do this?"

Rashjid snorted and looked up, his eyes meeting the gaze of the now astonished pirate who had backed away and straightened up at her words, struck dumb. Rashjid knew well that feeling, having been there many times himself.

Not a hair out of place, but with tiny beads of blood trickling down her neck. She reached down, her arms out for Rashjid to lift her down from the stage. He knew that she could have simply walked down the steps, same way she got up there, but then, he realized, he wouldn't have to put away his dagger, as he was doing now. He was a bit slow, she didn't wait for him to reach up for her, she launched herself at him gently; he caught her out of the air. /Lavendar, she always smells of lavender./

He set her on her feet. She went through the motions of straightening her dress, brushing none existent dust off it. The slight pressure of her hand on his forearm told him that it was time to be away and she wanted him to see to it. His almost imperceptible nod told her that he would, not that she had waited for his answer or saw him nod even now. She was already halfway across to the carriage. He sped after her, to open the door, to help her in. One must keep up appearances after all. From the middle of the street, he turned around and tossed the heavy key to the chains of the slaves to the dumbstruck pirate, who, surprisingly enough given his condition, caught it deftly out of the air.

"She is called Margaret Neats." Rashjid wondered how long it would take before half of the new slaves were dead, or how long it would take for the pirate, who looked not to be an idiot for all that, and certainly wasn't one if the little memsahib bought him in the first place, how long it would take before the not-idiot English pirate figured out that though she was called Margaret Neats, it wasn't really her name. Nor was she English. Or a child.

By the time Hal was finished unlocking the chains, Rashjid was back with water bags enough for them all; as thirsty as they were they had sense enough to drink sparingly at first so as not for it to come right back up. The tribal boy could not be roused to drink at all. Rashjid tore a bit off the end of his turban, wet it with a water pouch and trickled water into the boy's mouth. The warriors watched this with the look of a school of Moray eels; after a few sessions of the water, Rashjid reached into his belt and produced what looked like a seed pod to Hal, broke it open and waved it under the boy's nose. The boy woke coughing and looked around. Rashjid handed the pouch and the cloth to the man chained next to the boy and motioned them all on their feet, moving them off in a line. Hal dragged Jack along, catching him and pulling him to his feet again when he sagged, but Jack wouldn't allow himself to be carried.

/….and then we shall see what we shall see, Mistress Margaret Neats. We shall see what we shall see./ After receiving the water as promised, there wasn't any doubt in his mind that there would soon be food, but after that, who knew. And why did so many in the market make the sign of 'protection from evil' as they passed?


	13. The Unluckiest Pirate

**Interlude**

I feel my hands trembling when they slowly pull the noose over my head. Feel the rope scratch over my skin. In that moment, I want to run away. But I am too scared. I feel my heart beating up in my throat. My breathing is shallow. I'm licking my lips. I don't hear the guy reading my offenses. I look around. I feel. I feel, in that very moment, everything and everyone around me. I feel the clothing on my skin, and my hair brushing against my cheek. I feel the soldiers' warmth next to me. I feel the wind on my face, the rain on my skin. The excitement of the crowd. I feel everyone of you.

Then, I hear the drum roll. I freeze, and I realize I'm suddenly holding my breath. I smile, a wry smile, and tell myself that I won't need that in some seconds, so I better keep breathing as long as I can. So I breathe, a little bit. And then, I hear the drum roll stop. I think my heart skips a beat. Oh God. What's going to happen now? And in that second, I am terrified. There is a high-pitched, ringing sound in my ears that drowns out all the other noise. But one thing I hear very clearly: I hear the wooden, scratching sound of the man pulling the lever. I stop breathing. I wait. I tense, and I feel every muscle in my body tighten. And I prepare, though I don't really know what I am preparing for. And … nothing happens. For some seconds, I think, I feel no different. Am I dead already? Does it feel like that to die? I felt nothing, no pain. It's not so bad, actually. But then, I turn my head and I see the consternate looks of the soldiers. Then I figure. The trapdoor didn't work. I am not dead. I didn't fall, I am still standing straight. Christ in a cannon, I am truly the unluckiest pirate.

They are talking, but I don't really hear them.

Then, they pull the noose back over my head, and lead me down the steps. I feel their grip tighten on my upper arms. Yeah, I'm swaying a bit. I am – just a tiny little bit – nervous. My knees feel like butter. And my hands are so cold. Why is this happening to me.

They test the trapdoor. And it works perfectly. Fine. The sound makes all the hair on my arms stand up.

The next line I hear very clearly: "Bring him back up." But I don't want to go back up, really.

One of the soldiers pulls me by the elbow, and they walk me up the steps again. And once again the noose wraps itself around my neck. I feel the sweat on my nose, despite the rain and the cold. The warm breath that heats up my upper lip. The metal of the rings in my lip is smooth. I clench my teeth around it, and I flinch when I feel it on the back of my teeth. It hurts, and it's a strange pain. Haven't felt it before. I can't really stand now, shifting my weight from one leg to the other, my knees are shaking a bit. My throat is burning from my hectic breathing. I tell myself I'm calmer now. I look around while the drums roll, and then suddenly, I see him, him whom I wanted to see most of all, and the only familiar face in a crowd of strangers. Jack. There he is. And only now I feel tears welling in my eyes. Jack. God, thank you. Thank you for bringing him here. I look at him and he looks back. I'm sorry, because I know I cannot look away now, not anymore. His eyes are the only thing I want to see now. The only thing that I want to be seen by. I blink, and a tear begins to search its way down my cheek.

Dammit. I thought I could go without crying. Maybe he can't tell if from the rain. But I know he can. He doesn't cry, though, and I'm thankful for that. He looks very calm. I smile. It's good you are here. He calms me down, a little. And so I mouth a soundless "I love you" with my lips. And now he smiles back and mouths either "I know", or "I too". Doesn't matter, really. I know. And he's bowing his little Namasthé, when the drums stop, and I quickly close my eye. I don't want to see it, see me falling. But … nothing happens. Oh, come on. This can't be. I open my eye, and look for Jack. He's still in the same spot, and he looks very pale now.

"This can't be!" is all I hear, one of the soldiers whispers it. And I feel my knees giving in. Please, this has got to be a very weird joke. No, you're right, this can't be. I feel one of the soldiers reaching for me once again, because I am falling forward, and I wonder, are they afraid I would – maybe – strangle to death? I almost laugh on that.

This time, he pulls my eye patch off with the noose, and I quickly close my lids tight as a reaction. He just shoves the piece of leather a little up my forehead, it's too tightly wrapped in my hair to actually be brushed off. While they lead me down from the gallows again, he realizes it. And he looks at me almost in shock. Oh, no worries, it's not the end of the world. The end of the world – but just for me, mind you, it's up there.

This time, my knees won't hold. Although they try to keep me standing, I sit down on the steps, and I can't really breathe anymore. There's a dull pain in my chest. The soldier that removed the patch stands before me now and he doesn't know what to do. I hold out my cuffed hands from behind my back, showing him, hey, fella, look – obviously, I can't do it myself.

"Could you be so kind?" I say, and I realize how close my voice is to breaking.

He throws me one more confused glance, he didn't really expect me to say this. Or, say it like that. Too soft spoken for a pirate, for your taste? And he drops to a knee very uneasily, reaching out to pull the eye patch back over the empty socket. For a second I think … I could kick him now, jump up and run, disappear into the crowd.

Jack is here, my crew is somewhere. They could take me. Take me away.

But … what for? No, my reasons to live died that day, with her.

And so I say: "Thank you." Nothing more.


	14. Sail It, And Sink It

**Chapter 9**

**Sail it, and sink it**

I wake with a start, from a night full of nightmares. I don't remember them, but I am glad I don't. I remember they were not good, that's all.

Silence. No, wait, birds are singing outside. I find myself sitting in a huge clean white bed. Breathing heavily. My back aching once again, or still. Where am I? What is this place? I feel all hot and my vision is blurred. I need to blink several times to be able to see at least a little bit. Strands of my hair stick to my face and neck. My chest is covered in sweat. A huge room I am in. I can see the door on the other side, just opposite the bed. I try to look around, but my neck is stiff. I see light falling in through what must be a window with white curtains, to my left. I lick my teeth. My mouth feels terribly dry. Slowly, I move my tongue. Gulp, when there is really nothing to gulp. My throat is as dry as my mouth. My breath has eased down at least.

Some memories creep back into my mind. I remember the Navy vessel, the brig, the Maori, the eastern harbor, the slave market and the travel to the tea plantation. And then … I remember standing in the middle of a crowd, and I remember the Maori boy on the ground. I remember standing over him, yelling. And I remember I was terrified. I don't remember much after that. No … make that I remember nothing after that.

Burial. I do remember something.

Burial. The funeral of the Maori boy. Has it happened or did I dream that?

I shudder, even though it's damp and hot in the room. Clutch the blanket, to pull it up a little, although it seems a strange thing to do in the heat. My hands are cold. I start to examine myself. I am naked, save for breeches that can't be my own because they feel all clean and soft. The cuts on my chest are well sewn and healing. They are itching. So is the empty eye socket. There is a new cut on the inner side of my right arm. Has someone bled me? I reach up to my face and find bandages covering what has been my eye. My hair is bound backwards, but the plaits are undone. When my hands wander down to my throat I find my necklaces gone. So are my earrings, and the rings that were on my fingers. Where am I, where's my stuff, where's Jack and what the hell is going on here?

"Your jewelry is over here." I turn around in a start, which reminds my whole back of aching. One of my hands touches the bed, looks to stabilize me sitting up, the other reaches for the blanket once again. I was completely unaware that there was another person in the room. I stare at the speaker … a little girl, red hair, blue eyes, pale skin. Those eyes … . Her gaze hits me like a blow. I know at that very moment that I will never forget those eyes. Clear blue, like not all too shallow water, curling around a rock. I wonder, if I look really careful, will I see the waves in them? She has eyes like the ocean, both fresh and ancient. I feel like I could sail a ship in them. Sail it, and … sink it.

She is not older than seven, or that's what I think. And I keep staring at her, staring even tough I am not sure why. Staring into her blue eyes, eyes that send a shiver down my back. I feel like I should know her. Do I know her? Do I know any children? I don't know any children. But I know her. Why do I know her? I cannot know her. I sink back into the pillows with a sigh. No danger from this point at least. Pull up the blanket to cover my chest. It feels weird lying around naked next to a girl as young as her.

She's the girl from the slave market. It's coming back to me. The one I took hostage so unsuccessfully. I never looked in her face before. Memory comes in back in murky pieces.

"What?" I ask. My voice sounds rasp and weak. I wonder if she has understood me, at all. The girl puts down her book and walks over to a drawer. "Your jewelry. We had to take it off. It is in this box." She holds out a little wooden box, for me to look inside. My jewelry is in there, indeed. "Thank you." I say. "How long have I been sleeping?" "Ten days, if I remember correctly. But you were not sleeping. You were feverish. In and out of consciousness all the time. The doctor said you found some real sleep for the first time yesterday night.", she informs me. I just keep staring at her. "What's your name?" I ask, without having noticed that I was wondering about that. "Margaret, Sir." I grin on that. "Don't call me 'Sir'. My name is Hal." She nods and gives me a formal curtsey, "It's a pleasure to meet you." I smirk, "If I could but move, I would take a bow before you, Mistress Margaret." "Oh, never mind. I understand that." She again settles on the chair beside me.

"What's wrong with my hair?" All the trinkets are gone, as I realize. I was merely talking to myself, but she answers: "Well, it was washed." "Oh." I feel stupid for having asked. I guess my last bath has long ago faded from my memory. I look over to her. She has turned to her book again. "Will you stay with me, Mistress Margaret?" She looks up and studies me. After a while, when I'm not sure anymore if she is thinking about answering my question, she says: "The surgeon said we best keep watching your state. I was to read this book and the Lady said I could read it up here if I wanted, and so I did."

---

Slow. Slowly, I rise from the soft bed. I can feel every muscle contract when I move. I am so tired.

I look over my shoulder, back to where I've been lying, and see these red lines crisscrossing on the white sheets. There are a lot of the lines.

Alright, I want this. I want to see this. I need to.

And so I stand, on wary legs, holding myself up by the bed pole. I'm breathing hard. God I'm so weak. I only got up! I feel the air rushing in and out of my lungs.

I can make it over to the mirror.   
Slowly.

I can make it.

I'll get there. I'm not looking up. I need time to prepare. I can't just … face it like that. Or can I?

I get there. Lean on the desk.

I raise my head slowly. I'll see it. See it in a second.

"Do you really want to see it?"

Maggie's voice, calm and unswerving as ever, through the silence in the room.

Why is she always around when I want her to be? And why do I want her to be?

"I want to see it."

Do I really want to see it?

"You know what you look like."

"I knew what I looked like."

"You have not changed."

"I … ."

And I can't speak any further. I wish I could listen to her. But I can't. Can't.

And I steady my focus. Raise my eyes.

And I look at myself.

Look at my reflection.

Me.

There.

Is … that me.

I look at my face, look at what was my face, can that be my face, that can't be me, can't be true, can't be what I look like.

Sweet Jesus.

I realize I touched the mirror with my fingertips. Smooth and cold. The mirror.

I move, and remove the cold fingertips from the mirror, lay them onto my skin. My skin is hot, hot and torn.

Crisscrossing lines. Allover me. Down from my scalp across my forehead down my cheeks along my jawline along my cheekbones across my mouth.

Everywhere. Thick, and red.

There is the P. The branding, huge and dark, looming over my left brow. My eye follows the line of the P, follows to where … to where there's the empty space, behind my eyelids.

It is gone. Gone and naught will bring it back. It will never be there again. Destroyed. What if I loose the other-. Stop it. Won't happen. But it is worse enough like this, look at you! … me. Me, this is me. But it can't be. Can't be. I don't want to be that man.

Good God. Was that a sob? And why is the floor so close so suddenly?

On my knees, I feel. Feel the skin of my back, stretching over torn flesh. Feel tears on my cheeks. Cowering. Feel my hands over my face, my thighs under my chest. Feel the air leaving my body. I am so small.

How could he, how could he do this? How could he do this to any person, and why, why did he do it to me? What did I do to deserve a punishment like that?

Think about it … God knows a lot of things you deserve it for. But doesn't God know me better. Don't I know me better?

Hide me, hide me, hide me. I want to be gone, not there.

I hear her move beside me.

"Go away. Please go away."

She ceases to move.

"Don't look at me. Please, please don't look at me."

She remains silent for a while. Then … .

"Why?"

I cough. "Because I don't want to be looked at. I want to hide."

"Why?"

I press my eyelids shut. "Just because! Leave me!"

And then I think about it. I'm a grown man, and here I am, lying on the floor crying, with a little girl looking at me. I'm a fool.

I breathe. And sit up, back on my heels. Wipe tears from my face, move backwards, to lean against the wall. And I look at her. She looks back, and she looks no different than before. Not evaluating me, not judging me. Just looking at me. No, not looking at me the way I was just looking at myself. She looks at me and she sees past the mask of scars on my face. And she scares me. How can she? Where did she learn? Why does she know?

I shake my head. Stare at her.

"Who are you?"

She looks at me for a while, then she smiles. She just smiles.

I brush my hair back over my head with one hand. I get up, and take a few wary steps towards the bed. Maggie frowns, and I don't understand. I follow her glance, and then I see the pattern of crisscrossing red lines I have left on the wall.

I chuckle, feel the sting in my lips. "It's … a lasting impression, undoubtedly."


	15. Giving the Trapdoor a Chance

**Interlude**

Meanwhile, the soldiers check the door another time. And … it works. Oh, brilliant. Nothing to worry about. All will be to our full convenience this time. Fantastic. Lord, I think I can't stand up again.

I'm chewing the rings in my lip now, ignoring the pain in the teeth. I cough. I can't go back up there. Please, end it right now. I look at the soldier that still stands before me. I can't stand through another drum roll, not another time. I say, half because I'd really want him to, and another half because I want to see his reaction: "Shoot me." And he looks at me, and his eyes widen, and I see he is shaking in his boots. Just as much as me, and maybe a little more. Poor boy. And he stares down on me, sitting on the steps, and I stare up at him, standing there with his rifle, in his fancy uniform, probably less than half my age. Pretty boy, watching this old pirate die. Aye, I think, in that moment, on the steps of the gallows, awaiting my death for the third time this very special morning, this is the first time I do feel really old. And I smile, and I hear me saying: "It's alright." And I wonder … am I saying that to him, or to myself. He looks away then, and I see that he's struggling with his countenance.

Then, they are ordered to take me back up, and I am really not getting up with much energy this time. Hell, I am afraid. What is wrong with that trapdoor? I really can't cope anymore. When they bring me back up, I hear someone shout: "Don't waste any more time! Pull him up!" and I gasp. Doesn't that mean, excuse me asking very timidly and politely, doesn't that mean I'll strangle, and that it's going to be rather … slow? I hadn't thought that I would see it like this one day, but can't we give that trapdoor another chance? I'd rather you broke my neck quickly, you know? Please bring it to an end right now, and please do it fast, because I am not sure if I can keep standing very much longer. My hands are fists once again, and all blood seems to be gone from my fingers. And from my feet. I feel very cold suddenly.

The soldiers shrug, and they loosen the rope, so that it can be pulled up across the bar over our heads. All right folks, I really don't like this anymore. One of them steps forward and, for a third time, puts the noose around my neck. I stare at him, and I am breathing hard. He looks at me for a mere second, before he decides that my feet are by far more interesting.

I don't have much more time to look around, and they don't give me time to cry either, because they really seem determined to kill me this time, at any costs. But one thing I see, and that is a strand of bright red hair. Pearl. She came. And that paints a smile onto my face.


	16. Ronin

**Chapter 10**

**Ronin**

A sigh of relief escapes my lips when I grab the windowsill with both of my hands. It took me half an hour to get here from the bed. I can't believe I didn't take one step in days. I haven't done so since I saw my face in the mirror. Somehow … that sight branded into my brain, and the still clearly visible crisscross pattern of my cuts on the wall … have slightly diminished my want to explore my nearer surroundings. What has made me move today is a simple drive – the pirate's longing for the sea and the hope that I might see it from the window. The shirt sticks to my back once I feel the sill's warm wood under my palms. I sweat as if I was in the very fires of hell. Maybe I'd be better off there. When I move my arm to wipe sweat from my forehead, I feel the skin of my back stretch. I hold my breath and prepare myself for the familiar feeling of tearing flesh. But … there is none. After a while I allow myself to breathe again. I feel my back, feel the pins and needles as if a limb was waking again, but it is whole. A soft laughter rises in my throat. I feel further, feel my muscles shaking, but holding me, not upright, but steady, leaning forward on the windowsill. I feel upwards, feel the empty space in my head, but there is no searing headache that makes my whole vision turn.

Alright, I may not feel exactly good, but dammit … this is the first day that I actually feel like I could make it. Not only survive, but make it back to a state that was not a mere shadow of myself. I exhale. And open the window.

And draw a most delicious breath. Fresh air, and the coolness of a breeze on my face. There is a wee tang of brine in it. Or that's what I make myself believe at least. I feel I've closed my eye, but opened my mouth instead, to taste it all.

"It's good to see you breathe."

I turn my head slowly – I have learned not to do things quickly these days. There she is behind me, blue eyes, clear and deep and chilling my mind. Taking my breath for a second. There's a faint smile on my lips when I look back out of the window.

"And it is definitely worth to see you smile."

My smile broadens. "That's what the sea does to me."

She looks out of the window, raising her head a bit. "Can you see the sea from here?"

I chuckle. "Only a little. But," I look at her, "I can always see it in my heart. Blue silk crowned with white lace, dancing this way and that. Stretching from horizon to horizon, all around me, enclosing me as a whole, allowing me in its world. Carrying me, caressing me. No one has ever touched me like the sea. Both on my skin, and in my heart. And when I cry, it is like the ocean is pouring from my eyes, making us one. Reminds me that everything that is me is descended from the sea. And that when I die, that is where I will go. I will become one with the sea again. I will be ocean. That is a soothing feeling. … it might be why I seek death, from time to time."

"You cannot seek death."

"Well I think I learned that now."

My legs weaken, and I feel a rivulet of sweat roll down my back. Realize how much my venture to the window has tired me. "I had better returned to the bed."

- - -

„You want to walk down the aisle to the sitting room. That would be the farthest you walked all week."

„If we go slowly, I can manage."

She tilts her head in that birdish manner, bestowing me with naught but a flutter of her lids. Then she steps into the corridor, her hands folded in her back, with a subtle rustle of the fabric of her dress. I exhale sharply and will my feet to move. The stones are cold under my bare soles. Afternoon shade has cooled the floor.

"So …" I say casually between two labored breaths "… what do you keep in the sitting room?"

"My father's sword collection."

"Oh." I raise an eyebrow on that. "And you think it's wise to bring me there?"

She doesn't look back at me. "You cannot even raise your arm. I doubt you'd be a mortal danger. And if you are, Rashjid will kill you before you do any damage."

I look to my left, to where, out of nothing, the hindu servant has appeared. My heart forgets to beat for a second. Christ, I can't understand how he does that.

"You look better," he informs me.

I force my heart to resume its occupation. "Thank you." Jesus, my hands are shaking. If the infections and the fever won't kill me, he will.

But there is something, something that makes me walk straighter, a little lighter maybe. And we do get to the sitting room, although I'm not sure how. The view is amazing. The walls are covered with swords on hooks and stands. Swords from allover the world. Fine swords. I must stand there like a boy before the tree on Christmas eve.

Rashjid laughs. "Had we known that all we had to do to restore that sparkle in his eye was to show him swords, we would have done it earlier."

I let my gaze wander, across blades and pommels and sheaths. Aye, there must be some sparkling in my eye. Until-

"Holy mother of God!"

There it is!

"That's my sword!" I hadn't thought that I would be able to move so fast, but I'm next to the katana suddenly, wrapping my fingers around the saya in sheer disbelief. Turn around to Margaret and Rashjid.

"Can I … may I?"

Margaret takes a seat on a chair in the corner. "It's your sword."

Carefully, I take it from the stand, feel the weight in my hand. "How did you get it?"

"The Captain wanted my father to have it. But since he is not here, you may have it back."

I smile brightly. But she is not finished.

"The other Japanese katanas he has are by far in a better state."

I throw a sharp glance at her. But she's right of course, my blade is in a bad state, compared to the fine ones on the wall that have barely been used.

"Can I draw it?"

"If you feel like it."

She doesn't need to say that twice. I have never felt more like it. I draw the sword in front of my face. God, there is no sound as beautiful as an emerging blade. Am I getting goose-pimples here? The energy. The energy it puts into me. Cool wood warming under my touch. I feel the steel cutting through the air. Nothing can stop me now.

Ouch, well, maybe the wounds in my back can. I lower the hand with the sword to a tchiburi, stand broadly, the blade's tip pointing towards the floor.

"There." Maggie's voice suddenly.

I look over at her.

"Now you are … beautiful," she informs me calmly.

I sheathe the sword, sliding it over the back of my hand. Return it to its place on the stand with a little bowing stance.

"Well, it is my soul."

One final pat onto the sword's hilt.

It never came to me … a samurai without a master is called a ronin. Since I left Japan, I don't have a master anymore. So I have referred to myself as ronin. But until today, it never occurred to me what the word does mean when translated.

It means "one adrift on the waves".

Now what is that if not fitting for a sailor. One day … one day I'll find my master again. And that day, I'll call myself a samurai. And I'll be proud.


	17. Heaven must be an Ocean

Interlude 

There's movement, and I'm off my feet before I have time to panic. Suddenly, pain, searing hot around my throat. Rolls over me like a wave. I feel I'm trying to breathe and it doesn't work, and that is a very frightening sensation. That is, in all of those days that I've been waiting for the execution, the first time that I really feel death, laughing right into my face. Oh my God I don't want to die! Where am I going, what is to happen, what will be, will I still be there, will I just cease to exist? I am so afraid.

I feel my body tremble, I feel my hands with my fingers stretched to their limit behind my back. The bones in my neck crack. I'm shivering allover. My head is turning very hot and blood seems to be boiling in my veins. It feels as if someone tried to cut my one remaining eye out of my skull. Red and black dots start dancing in front of my face. Is that I making these strange noises? Then, I don't feel myself anymore, and maybe it would be pleasant, wasn't it for the sensation that I am sucking my nose in, because I try to draw breath so hard. The world blurs in a spin.

And I'm still alive. I am very alive, and all kinds of sensations explode in my mind. I feel, and I feel too much. So much! And it frightens me. Please, let it stop now. Let me breathe! I want to scream, yes, in that moment I want to scream for help. I want to scream for Pearl, and Jack, to come and rescue me. But it is too late. I don't know how long it lasts. I thought it would be over quickly, I'd just cease to think and that was it. But I am still there, and I couldn't say, have I been hanging for seconds, minutes? My senses are swimming, but my mind is there, very clearly. It is a little bit as if I lost my feeling for reality, a little bit as if I was really drunk, but in the back of my head, I'm still watching myself. I'm watching, and I want to run away because I see that I am dying. And as much as I have longed for death in my life, the one, or the other time, now that death's pale angel slowly wraps a cold embrace around my chest, I want to live. I want to live. I am too scared to die. But somehow, the pale figure only rests its head calmly against my shoulder, and holds me tighter. Oh God. Not like that. Not here, not now.

But … when then, Hal Sparrow? When is the right moment? Maybe … maybe this is just it. Maybe it's just over now. As simple. Stop. Struggling. Maybe I'll just die now, and sail a ship into heaven today. That would be fine. Heaven must be an ocean. Maybe I can just go on sailing there. I will be fine, maybe? Maybe death is not so very different? Being dead I will go on with my life? I feel very light, I realize. Very light, and getting lighter. And suddenly, rather calm. Not just as frightened anymore.

But then, there's more hot stinging pain around my throat, and I drop for a bit. Jesus Christ, what's happening now? Reality clams me back, and the sounds of a raging crowd ring clearly in my ears. I don't understand. Cold encloses me.


	18. Parrot Eyes

**Note: **Another very beautiful chapter by Pendragginink.

**Chapter 11**

Parrot Eyes 

/They are beautiful/ Margaret thought, watching Hal play with the little lorikeet parrots, deep jewel colors of red, green and yellow, and that was just the wounds on his face. Same colors as the tiny birds, just not as bright. Hal thought the birds were beautiful. He said so, but then, he thought most things were beautiful, except his own face. That was the only thing they disagreed on, well, that and fresh fig juice.

Hal hated figs in any form she knew. For her, the pale fruit was food and the green juice was juice. Lizard juice, he called it, Poisons pretty pirates. And dried figs reminded him of lizard skin. Can't stay beautiful eating ugly food. He had laughed. She wondered at that. Food was just food. She eaten raw lizards, and seen small children sold for sale as food in the marketplace. What place beauty in that?

It was the power of the thing, she decided. It wasn't so much that he wouldn't eat figs, he would relish them quickly enough if starving. It was simply, that he didn't want to. And the power was in knowing he had the choice.

The lorikeets festooned the branches over their heads, like clusters of exotic tropical blossoms, and flickered about watching Hal's nimble fingers fashion a cup from a folded leaf and pour it full of fig juice from the ubiquitious canteen Rashjid insisted be dragged along as his idea of the perfect refreshment.

Margaret saw that Hal had noticed she was watching him . He smiled, only slightly, because it hurt to smile, she knew, and he did not turn to look at her. She could see blood bright and new on his lips; the wounds left by the fish hooks were not healing well.

At least 15 little birds came to sit on his head and shoulders, turning their heads upside down at the wonder of him filling the cup. Several of the bolder birds shuffled their way down his arm jostling for position , squabbling over a spot from which they could sip the heady contents, their eyes closing in pleasure.

Margaret was pleased as well, but it was not the birds she watched and wondered about. It was the manner of the man. She sat entranced watching him totally absorbed in feeding the greedy feathered-ones . The restless little parrots now fought and hopped about his shoulders, pecked at his scabs, marched along his arms, tugged at his stitches, hung upside down from his ears, fussed and twittered in his hair braids, made love to the fascinating trinkets and beads woven into the plaits, and waited none too patiently for a chance to get at the fragrant syrup. Pretending to ignore their insistant chirps, Hal refilled the leaf cup with careful precision.

/I understand what he is doing, but why does he do it? Where is the gain/ Margaret could see no purpose in what he did. . The birds were capable of caring for themselves yet here he was, feeding them and grinning over it, tearing his lip to pieces, but for what? For having found a use for the fig juice? Pouring out the juice would dispose of it and it would feed the ants. The satisfaction of having so good a thing as the fig juice to give them?

His efforts did have a purpose she knew, she could feel it in the intensity of his concentration, he was working towards something. He had enticed the birds, true, but what was that? They were more irritating than anything.

"Yi, parrot." /Just look at that now./ Hal shoo'd a parrot grimacing at the small guest having just poohed in his pocket.

Margaret laughed.

Hal's face lit, delighted, and his eye was merry as He held the cup out as far to the side as he could reach, trying not to grin at the little birds all turning as one, little parrot eyes following as he balanced the fig friendly cup on the girls knee. Grinning hurt his lip.

/So, this is what fun looks like./

The indignant little birds fussed and squawked at him; Hal just pointed to the cup, one finger nearly touching it. One of the pouting little birds soon gave in and walked along his arm to his hand, dangled upside down over the cup and sipped the juice; it was but a moment till the entire parrot crew moved over to claim a share, stopping now and again to chirr and trill at both of them what they thought of the whole business.

"It is good to hear you laugh, Minette."

"How good?"

"Paradise. What shall I do next to make you laugh?"

"Try explaining to the 'parrot eyes' surrounding us that the fig juice is gone."

And, later, after Hal managed to outrun the last of the parrot attack, there was much laughter indeed, and Hal answered Margaret that , yes, that's what is mean by 'having fun and did she like it.'

"It was pleasant enough at the time, ..."

"Minette, when do you play?"

"Play?"

"Play, you know, have fun. Take it easy." Hal fell silent as it dawned on him that for this child, no, not child, child she had never been, for this... one, nothing had ever been easy.

"You are talking about having fun."

"But the fun always ends, is that it? Can't have fun and good times all the time, can you? How would you know what a good time was if thats all you had?" Hal stopped in the road, faced her, fearful of what her blunt wisdom would say.

If 'fun' for its own sake must surely end, would it not be wise then, to avoid 'fun'? And would you not be happier, not knowing you were not happy?

"So, you found the catch in it."

But I wonder. Is there a catch?


End file.
